


To Love What Death Can Touch

by wtflommy



Series: String Theory [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Book History, Cover Art, Destiny, Dragonstone, Established Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Fanart, Hurt/Comfort, Kings Landing, Minor Character Death, POV Third Person, Red String of Fate, Sexual Content, Smut, Torture, show canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-03-22 15:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13767492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtflommy/pseuds/wtflommy
Summary: ‘Tis a fearful thing to love what death can touch. A fearful thing to love, to hope, to dream, to be – to be, And oh, to lose.--As the pieces move into play, Arya and Sandor find they are simply pawns in the Great Game. With death at their door and two queens fighting over a throne of swords, how many times can a string break before it can't be tied back together anymore?





	1. Not What I Wanted to Hear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor gets possessive. Jon makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  ‘Tis a fearful thing  
> to love what death can touch.
> 
> A fearful thing  
> to love, to hope, to dream, to be –
> 
> to be,  
> And oh, to lose.
> 
> A thing for fools, this,
> 
> And a holy thing,
> 
> a holy thing  
> to love.
> 
> For your life has lived in me,  
> your laugh once lifted me,  
> your word was gift to me.
> 
> To remember this brings painful joy.
> 
> ‘Tis a human thing, love,  
> a holy thing, to love  
> what death has touched.
> 
> _― Tis a Fearful Thing, Yehuda HaLevi_  
> 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

Whether it was the mere fact that Arya was naked and in his arms, or the more pressing likelihood of what cold evil was moving closer by the moment, Sandor didn’t care. His protectiveness had only grown since their time in Winterfell, when they’d shared dark wine and dark hearts, and with this new chapter of their story, he didn’t see it coming to an end any time soon. As he had watched her writhe beneath him, a deadly nymph of a woman, that protectiveness had burned within him, accompanied by a possessiveness which he now found almost unbearable.

However, the moment his head touched the soft feather pillow, the weight of what transpired north of the Wall hit him hard and as he pulled Arya into his arms, cradling her naked body close to his, he fell into a deep sleep.

When finally he opened his eyes, the room was almost completely dark; the candles had burnt out long ago and the porthole provided the only illumination, casting grey light over them. He trailed lazy kisses along her exposed shoulder, his large hand pawing at the gentle curve of her hip beneath the furs before finding the heat between her legs. Arya shifted, stretching the sleep and ache from her muscles with a quiet groan.

“I should check on Jon.” Her voice was grave, however vain an attempt it was, but her words were breathless.

“Don’t think he’s going anywhere.”

As though the sense of his statement were enough to placate her, Arya relaxed her legs and gave him passage. Sandor pushed his knee between her legs, spreading them enough to slide a finger inside her with a satisfying grunt. Oh, was she wet. Had she been thinking about what they’d done just hours prior? Did she want him as badly as he wanted her?

“Want you,” he growled into her ear, his rough fingers running along her slick lips as one digit pumped slowly, moving at the pace set by her gentle hip movements.

“Then have me,” she breathed, looking over her shoulder at him with cool finality.

Needing no further validation of her desire, Sandor pushed her to her stomach, grinning against her shoulder as his weight pressed her into the mattress. He forced her legs apart with his own and her hips rolled up of their own accord as he paused, feeling the heat between her legs mix with his. 

“Please, Sandor…” Arya begged as he ran the swollen head of his manhood along her. What a sound those two words were.

Her tiny fingers dug into the furs as he slowly—achingly slowly—buried himself inside her once more. A shuddered moan escaped their lips as his length disappeared; her into the bedding where her reddened face was hidden, and Sandor in her ear from his place atop her. The tug on his cock as he pulled out made his eyes roll back and he bit at her shoulder before pushing back in. 

Hours earlier he’d wanted to learn everything she liked, and he was certain there would be many more chances; but right now the desire that had grown hot and deep in his belly while he was stuck in the frozen wasteland north of the Wall needed to be released. Soft moans came from her as he pressed her into the bed, only fueling his growing possessiveness over her. 

Towering over her, he pulled her head up to look down upon her flushed face before devouring her swollen lips. Every sound she made, every tightening muscle, was his and his alone.

“Every time you move, every ache you feel,” he growled into her mouth as he thrust in once more. “Will be a reminder that I was here. Only me.”

“Only you,” she repeated breathlessly as she pushed back to meet him. 

With his fingers dug deep into the soft flesh of her hips, their breaths quickened as his thrusts frantically matched pace. He would have to pay her back in kind, but right now he couldn’t fight the need to claim her, to make her feel him, remember him, even when he wasn’t there.

The red string on the bedside table caught his eye and he let out a pleased growl as he looked back to her; her face buried in the furs that she clutched tightly, her hips high in the air as they connected forcefully with his. Whether it were true or not, Sandor cared little, everything that happened had led them to this moment and that was all that mattered. 

The sounds of her moaning his name was a sweet melody upon his ears. As Sandor nipped at her shoulder, flicking his tongue out to taste the saltiness of her skin, Arya reached a hand back to grasp his neck, holding him close.

“Gods, girl,” he grunted hot in her ear, feeling her nails dig into him. 

A cacophony of sounds filled the air: grunts and moans, the squeaking wood of the bed, and the solid, wet noise of their union. Her sounds of pleasure grew louder with each crazed thrust, and he cupped a hand over her mouth, muffling her passionate song against his palm as he barreled towards his finish.

With a final, powerful thrust he poured his pleasure into her, pulling her against him as tightly as he could. His hand slid from her mouth as he collapsed beside her, blissfully satisfied. Kissing and suckling her damp neck, he lazily pumped his softening cock inside her, pushing his seed deeper, and in his mind, she was finally, truly his.

 

* * *

The sour taste of moon tea stuck in the back of her throat, causing her to smack her lips together in an effort to get rid of it. He’d called her a brazen minx for bringing its ingredients with her from Winterfell, but they both had agreed it was better to be prepared than with child. Arya paused outside of the cabin where her brother was resting, shifting uncomfortably as her breeches rubbed against her sensitive nether-bits.

Carved intricately into the door was a raging three-headed dragon, the Targaryen girl’s sigil. She wondered sadly if it would be changed to a two-headed dragon, before hearing the muffled conversation coming from within the room. She quirked her ear to hear better over the creaking of the ship and the footsteps on the deck above. 

“How about, ‘my queen’?” 

Some additional mumbled conversation, too low for her to hear. Arya furrowed her brow deeply. Jon would not bow so easily, would he? There had to be more to it.

“I hope I deserve it.”

“You do.”

A pregnant pause. Arya tensed, ready to make her entrance but Daenerys spoke once more. Even through the door, she could hear the hesitance in the woman’s voice. 

“You should get some rest.”

Arya moved across the narrow hall from the door, her hands held behind her back, waiting for it to open. 

In the flurry of boarding and getting Jon settled and warm, she hadn’t had a chance to get a truly good look at the Targaryen woman and took a moment to give her a once over before meeting her sad eyes. They were about the same height, but the woman wore her femininity much better than Arya ever would, with her well-fitting outfit that seemed to accentuate her curves perfectly. What did her own disheveled hair look like in comparison to the pristine waves of white that laid about the dragon-queen’s shoulders?

Not that it mattered. Arya gave her a curt nod. 

“I hope you haven’t been waiting for your brother for too long,” she murmured, clearly still affected by her conversation with Jon. Her eyes looked wet.

“Not at all. When I heard you speaking with him, I thought to give you a moment. How is he?”

“Weak. Tired. But ever the fighter.”

“He pledged to you.”

“You heard that, I suppose?”

“I did.”

“And what is your opinion on the matter?” 

“My opinion matters little in the grand scheme of things. I simply want my brother unharmed, and doing what he thinks is best for the North.”

“He was brave, you know. Going north of the Wall.” 

Daenerys took a couple of steps across the corridor to look through the wavy glass out to the dark sea that surrounded them. The cold light caught on her hair, giving it an almost-silver sheen. She was beautiful, Arya could admit that.

“Brave, or stupid?”

Daenerys let out a small laugh. “Heroes do stupid things. But if they didn’t, would they be heroes? That tall one, who went with them, I take it you know him since you’re bunking together?”

“I do.”

“He’s big, that one. Quite the looker, even with the scars. Do you fancy him?”

Arya made a face. Was she being made fun of? Daenerys sensed her apprehension. 

“I meant no offense. We love who we love—”

“I don’t love him,” Arya was quick to correct. But did she truly believe that?

“I was only getting at…” Daenerys paused for a second, looking down at her hands. With a somber smile, she met Arya’s glance once more. 

“My husband, my first husband, was a great man. A _beast_ of a man, about as tall and wide as that one. I did not love him at first, quite a different situation that yours I imagine. Over time, as I got to know him, I came to truly appreciate his strength. He was passionate, in charge. Even as someone who needs control, I found myself succumbing to him in ways I couldn’t have imagined,” Daenerys gave her a small, knowing smirk.

Arya flushed. Had she heard them? Seven hells, she had tried to keep quiet but the things he did to her… Her cheeks grew even hotter as she recalled. 

“My apologies, I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this, and it’s none of my business what goes on behind closed doors,” she waved her hand dismissively. 

Arya shrugged, trying to brush it off. “It is your ship, I suppose you have a right to know.”

“Hardly. I’ll leave you to speak with your brother. Perhaps we’ll catch up another time. I’d love to hear your stories, Arya Stark.” 

Before Arya could say another word, Daenerys had turned on her heel and retreated down the hall of cabins. She chewed on her lip in contemplation, trying to understand what this woman was after, particularly as it related to her brother. Was she truly attracted to Jon in some way, or was it a mere political alliance? She would find out soon enough. 

Arya looked back up at the three-headed dragon on the door with a frown before grasping the handle and quietly making her entrance. 

 

* * *

The galley was modest, much like the rest of the ship. As with most places on the ship, Sandor had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the rafters as he entered. On one side of the kitchen’s narrow length was a small stove and wash basin along with a prep table where someone had been chopping potatoes, carrots and onions. 

A long table with bench seating flanked the other wall, where Davos and Jorah sat with mugs of ale clutched between their hands as they leaned heavily against the bulkhead. From a lone porthole, weak light made its way to their tired faces, casting them in a cold hue that would have made them look dead if it weren’t for the warm glow of the brazier that sat at the far end of the table.

“Didn’t expect to see you so soon,” Davos noted. Jorah looked up wearily from beside him. 

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” 

Sandor sat heavily at the table with a grunt, unsure if the creaking he heard was the bench or his joints. In the middle of the table was a basket of hard bread; he took a piece and began chewing loudly as he watched the old man with a scowl.

“For better or worse, we’ve been given the honor of sharing a wall with you. Seemed you’ve been quite occupied for the last few hours—suppose hunger is only natural,” Davos chuckled in good spirits as he looked over at Jorah who gave him the smallest ghost of a smirk.

“I imagine you may hear more of it,” Sandor said, his face deadpanned except the slight twitch of his good brow. What point was there in keeping it a secret? Everyone would know before long anyhow, especially if he couldn’t keep Arya quiet. Not that he wanted to.

“If Snow gets better, perhaps we’ll coordinate our efforts. He seemed quite taken with that Targaryen girl.”

Davos let out a hearty laugh as he raised his mug. “Quite the symphony for our ears.”

Jorah cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the focus the conversation had taken. “I hear tell that this dead man may not survive so far south.”

“It damn well better. If we risked our lives and got that girl’s dragon killed for no reason…” Sandor shook his head as he trailed off.

What would they do if they couldn’t get the Lannister forces on their side? It was a steep proposition, but they were left with little choice other than to hope Cersei Lannister, of all people, would listen to their pleas.

“All we can do is hope. Have you checked on it recently, Clegane?” Davos was more serious now, his thick, dark brows angling sharply into a deep furrow.

“So because I’m the only one strong enough to carry the damned thing, I got to check on it, too? Do it yourself.”

“I’m to meet with the ship’s captain here shortly, so I sadly cannot check on our dead friend,” Davos shrugged.

“I should check on our queen, now that things have settled.”

“You really think this girl is the one to sit on that blasted chair of swords?” Sandor chewed loudly on another hunk of bread.

“At the end of all of this, if the Iron Throne still stands, then yes. She wants a better world for the people of Westeros, one where the crown does not crush the commoner but liberates and empowers them.” Jorah seemed to believe the nonsense spewing from his mouth.

“That’s how you get a countryside burnt to the ground. People fighting people because there is no order—because they’ve been liberated,” Sandor noted skeptically. Vivid yet dark images of his travels with Arya through the Riverlands still plagued him.

“Not if done right,” a soft, but stern voice called from behind them. 

Sandor turned to see the small white-haired woman approach. Dressed in a grey, militant overcoat decorated with three dragons, she was much more imposing than when he’d seen her at Eastwatch.

Jorah came to his feet. “Your Grace. There isn’t need for you to be in this part of the ship, we can bring you what you need.”

“Nonsense, Ser Jorah,” the Targaryen girl smiled. “What kind of queen am I to be if I can’t handle a dingy galley?”

Daenerys took a seat beside Sandor, across from Jorah who hesitated to sit. “Seven hells, Mormont, sit your ass down.”

“That’s no way to speak in front of your queen,” Jorah growled as he slowly lowered to the bench.

“With as much respect as I’m capable of offering, she’s not my queen.” He turned a dubious eye towards her, but Daenerys seemed to find amusement in the conversation. 

“I like you, Sandor Clegane. You speak true and from the heart. I could use more of that around me.” 

“Lies only get you more lies,” he shrugged, taking another bite of bread and chewing it thoughtfully before continuing. “You’ve done nothing to earn my loyalty.”

“I get the sense your loyalty is worth the time it takes to get,” she simpered, eyeing him a moment longer than Sandor was comfortable with.

“If we don’t get this dead man to Cersei, and convince her to join this cause, my loyalty, and anyone else’s, means shit.”

“True enough.” 

Daenerys seemed fixated on him, studying his face as her own screwed up in thought. One small woman to make his skin crawl was enough, even if it was for a different reason.

“You are no Northerner, so you hold no allegiance to the Starks. And from what I hear, Cersei Lannister is the last person you’d bend a knee to. Why are you here?” 

For her. 

“Have to make myself useful somehow. That lot we left behind convinced me to come north, where we ran into Snow. You were sparred the pleasure of Dondarrion’s endless prattling about destiny and the Lord of Light’s plan for us all.”

“Why was Arya there?”

“She’s a stubborn little wolf, that one. Suppose she couldn’t bear another moment away from her brother,” he shrugged.

“I doubt that’s all,” Daenerys speculated, glancing over at Davos who gave her a confirming smirk. 

Sandor huffed. “Even a queen can’t keep herself from kitchen gossip, that much I should have known.”

“Have to keep myself entertained somehow. Can’t all be dragons and dead men and accession to the throne,” she shrugged.

With as much finesse as a man of his size in such a small space could manage with aching muscles and joints, he removed himself from the bench. 

“I’ve a dead man to see,” Sandor nodded to Daenerys, the smallest hint of a smile hidden under his thick beard. There was a lot about her and Arya that were different, but he saw a similar tenacity in her that he wasn’t sure would be a bad thing. 

 

* * *

Arya stood at the door, watching the slow rise and fall of the mountain of blankets piled atop her brother. The large bed sat in the middle of the room, with heavy drapes along the windows where grey light streamed in. An ornate desk with dragons carved into the side was at the opposite end of the cabin, littered with papers and a few books. It wasn’t the grandest of ships, and yet it was still nicer than the two ships she’d previously been on. 

“Arya…?” 

Dull brown eyes looked her over as though he didn’t believe what was in front of him. It felt like a dream to her as well, seeing her brother, alive and very much there. Arya moved cautiously to the bed.

“Jon…”

“I don’t understand…” He furrowed his brow and tried to sit up, making a sour face.

“Easy now, you need to rest.”

“Why are you here? How are you here?”

Arya settled on the bed beside her brother, staring at him for a moment in disbelief. It had been years since she’d last seen him, when he’d gifted her Needle before leaving for the Wall. With a sudden sob, she leaned down and buried her face in his neck, hugging him as tightly as she could. His arms came up to wrap her in a weak embrace. 

“Oh, Jon, I missed you so much! There is so much to talk about but right now, I’m just so relieved that you’re alive.”

She pulled away, looking at him with wet eyes. Jon gave her a sheepish smile as he pulled the furs up over his bare chest. The scars hadn’t gone unnoticed by her, but she’d ask about them later. 

“Truly though, how are you here?”

“It’s a long story. Short version? I heard you were at Winterfell, so I decided to come home instead of going to King’s Landing.”

“Why were you going to King’s Landing?”

“To kill Cersei,” Arya met his gaze with unwavering seriousness. He frowned. She shook her head, continuing on quickly. “I ran into the Brotherhood who were heading north to Eastwatch. An old traveling companion of mine was with them.”

“Who from the Brotherhood would you have been traveling with?”

“Well, technically he’s not part of the Brotherhood.”

“The Hound?”

Arya furrowed her brow. “Don’t call him that. That was another life. I came north with them to Winterfell and after they left Bran told us—” 

She cut herself off. Now was not the time to talk about the intricacies of their brother being the Three Eyed Raven. Arya wasn’t even sure she fully understood it. A chill ran through her at the possibility of him watching this very moment.

“We received word that you were heading north to capture one of those dead… things. The only logical place for you to go from Dragonstone was Eastwatch.”

“Aye, but why were _you_ there?” Jon pressed.

Arya picked at the fur beneath her crossed legs as she chewed on her lip.

“You would always chew on your lip when you were nervous,” Jon pointed out. She smiled. 

“Sandor Clegane and I had some… unfinished business, and with Winterfell safe from Littlefinger, I wanted to get to you before I lost that chance.”

“Safe from Littlefinger? What happened?” Jon adjusted himself in the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Arya leaned forward to pour him a cup of water. 

“We executed him for treason,” she said plainly as she handed him the cup. 

Jon froze as he took the cup. His fingers twitched around the metal vessel. “Executed him? On what charges?”

Arya shook her head. “Plenty; that’s also a long story for another day. Everything seemed to fall into place—Sandor was here, you were here; you were going to King’s Landing afterwards, which was exactly where I needed to go. It felt like destiny.”

“Not a word I’d expect from the mouth of Arya Stark,” Jon shot her a smirk as he took a sip of water.

“No, I suppose not. But things change. People change.”

“Aye, people do change.”

Jon tipped the cup back, finishing off the water. With a dull thud, he sat the cup back on the bedside table and adjusted himself with a wince. His expression darkened as he met his sister’s gaze once more.

“We’re taking that thing to Cersei, Arya. I don’t think it’s safe for you to be there, it could all be a trap. As it stands, Daenerys plans to take all of her armies, if something does happen.”

“My safety is not something you need to worry about. I’m not the one falling into frozen lakes,” she smirked. “A lot has happened since we last saw each other, Jon, things that are better left unsaid, but you must trust that I am capable of handling myself and my mission.”

“Mission?” Jon laughed briefly before his face twisted into a grimace. “You sound so serious.”

Arya made a face. “Why wouldn’t I be serious? Cersei is the last name I need to cross off my list and it’s meant to happen now.”

“List?”

“Of people who… I’m going to kill. For what they’ve done to our family.” 

The words rolled off her tongue as though they were a foreign language. Despite her ability to protect herself, a small part of her didn’t want to taint the image he would still have of her. It was a silly thought; she was not that little girl any longer.

“A man from the Night’s Watch gave me the idea on our way North. He was going to bring me back to Winterfell on his way back to Castle Black with recruits.”

“Gods, Yoren… He never did come back. And you never made it to Winterfell.”

Arya frowned. “I did not.”

She filled the stale cabin air with stories of her travels through the Riverlands. Of how she met Gendry, Beric, Thoros and Sandor. How she’d almost been a casualty of the Red Wedding had Sandor not saved her. When she got to the point where Sandor had fought Brienne for her, she paused and turned to Jon from her place at the end of the bed, where she had been pacing.

“I couldn’t kill him. At the time, I thought it was because I wanted him to suffer but he had done so much for me, that he didn’t have to, and had risked his life. Given his life, I had thought.”

“Funny you would meet up again,” Jon smiled.

“Beric went on endlessly about divine powers at work during our travels. He got it in my head that we were supposed to reunite, that it wasn’t just random. I didn’t believe him at first, but the more I thought about it, I just couldn’t rid myself of the notion. Of all the people I had met, why did I keep running into this one man? Was Beric right, was it destiny? Or merely a strange coincidence?”

“Sandor’s why you came to Eastwatch.”

“You’re both why I came to Eastwatch,” Arya corrected.

“Well, destiny or not, I don’t think it’s wise for you to come to King’s Landing.”

“It’s not your place to decide, Jon.”

“When it comes to the fate of the Seven Kingdoms, I think I might have some say,” he said sternly. “You’re liable to start a riot, throw everything into utter madness!” 

“Everything will be utter madness regardless of whether I’m there or not! But instead of festering and causing us undue annoyance, I’ll rip it off like a dirty bandage stuck to a wound—it’ll be painful but then its done. One less piece to deal with in the coming war.”

“Arya, it’s not your place to make that decision!”

“Why not?” Her face was red now, her eyes brimming with angry tears. “I can take care of Cersei better than—”

“I don’t care what you can or cannot do, Arya! You’re my sister, and I’ll not see you in harm’s way. We’ll make a detour to White Harbor, you’re going back to Winterfell.”

“You cannot be serious,” Arya balked, her fists clutched in a white-knuckle grip on the wooden footboard of the bed. The hot tears in her eyes threatened to fall. She’d just been reunited with her brother, and he wanted her gone, banished from his side.

“I am serious, and I’ll hear no more of it! At first light, arrangements will be made for your return to Winterfell.”


	2. True Words and a Sharp Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A promise is made physical and dreams become reality.

* * *

 

* * *

 

Night had befallen the Targaryen ship that floated over the silent, black sea by the time Arya returned to their cabin, red-cheeked and wet-eyed. Without a word she had wrapped herself in Sandor—his smell, his feel, his taste—trying to ignore the more pressing issue of her brother’s words for just a moment. Instead she had channeled her frustration into passion, managing to leave him breathless by the time their heads hit the pillows. 

“Now that you’ve worn me out, girl, spill it — what’s going on?”

Arya frowned against his chest where she laid curled close, running a finger over the soft curve of his thick pectoral, tracing the scar that ran down from his collarbone. 

“It’s Jon.”

“Not the happy reunion you expected?”

“It was, sort of. Until he decided King’s Landing is too unsafe for his little sister and that I’m to go back to Winterfell at once,” she scoffed. “We’re detouring to White Harbor in the morning.”

“Like hell we are.” Sandor’s arms tightened around her. “Everywhere is unsafe anymore, being in that shit city is no different than being in Winterfell, closer to the dead.”

“Jon doesn’t seem to see it that way,” she muttered.

“He sees a young girl who can’t protect herself, not a woman grown who’s probably killed just as many men as he has. Might be he needs another point of view.”

“Do you think he’d actually listen to you?” Arya raised a skeptical brow at him as she sat up, pulling a fur around her nakedness. She was upset, he knew that, but in the warm glow of the lone lantern, with a thick winter fur wrapped around her narrow shoulders, all he saw was her wolfish beauty.

“Doesn’t hurt,” he shrugged.

“And what if he doesn’t?”

“Then we’ll get off at White Harbor, buy some horses, and head to King’s Landing.”

“You’d come with me?” Arya stared off distantly, her eyes hollow.

“You told me I’m never to leave your sight again.”

Arya’s lip twitched in a sad smile as she reached over to the bedside table to grab the tangled red string and the small knife beside it.

“What are you doing?”

“Cutting this in half.”

“…Why?”

The string sliced in two with a faint snap and Arya held out her hand. “Sit up. Give me your hand.”

After a moment of hesitation, Sandor obeyed, sitting up with a grunt as he held out his hand to her. She held his hand, palm up, studying the marks and callouses in tense silence. 

“I want you, I… I need you, I think, as frustrating as that is to admit. To desire someone so capable of driving me mad, it’s a terrible joke from the Gods,” her voice broke as she shook her head.

There was an almost invisible tremor along her exposed shoulders; had it not been for the minute vibrations of the fur tucked around her chest and under her arms, he would have missed it. Delicate fingers trembled over the soft skin of his inner wrist, wrapping the string around and tying it tight. When she finished, her hands fell limply to her lap as she lowered her head. With a tightly knit brow and a thoughtful chew of her lip, she met his gaze once more.

“So many good and bad things are happening all at once. What if we’re separated once more? And before you scoff and call me crazy—”

“You _are_ crazy,” Sandor interrupted smugly. Arya scowled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I know it’s silly, but whatever happens I want something to remember you, to remember this,” she gestured around the room. “I want to believe Beric and Thoros were right. No matter the distance or obstacle, we’ll find our way back.”

Handing him the other string, she held out her wrist and looked up at him with a hopeful spark in her eyes. With the burning need to keep her safe always haunting him, Sandor wanted to wrap her in his arms, assure her that he’d never leave her side, but he knew she was right. War brought unpredictable circumstances, and with a power-crazed Lannister, a dragon-wielding Targaryen and the army of the dead colliding, who knew what the future would bring.

Her small hand seemed to disappear in his as he took her wrist. Wordlessly, he tied the string around it before bending to press his lips to the skin, lingering on the warmth. Tangling her fingers in his hair, Arya bent to press her lips to the top of his head. For a quiet, intimate moment, they sat there—his head in her lap and her lips upon his head—nothing but silence around them save for the crackle of the lantern and the creak of the ship.

Beneath long whiskers, his mouth tugged into a smirk as he sat back up. Melancholy emanated from her small body as she clutched the fur to her chest, cold steel eyes studying him in silence.

“Let’s leave those two pillow biters out of it.”

The gesture was as much of an admission of need as she would get, and she wouldn’t have expected anything else. Quirking her lips, Arya leaned forward to gently kiss the corner where his mouth tipped up. Turning into it, Sandor threaded his fingers through her hair and tugged the fur from her grasp. He deepened the kiss to an appreciative sigh and pulled her back down to the pillows, ready to be done with the outside world for one more night. 

 

* * *

Being out at sea was not on the list of things Sandor enjoyed. Besides small vessels to cross the Blackwater, he hadn’t ever been on a boat, let alone a ship out at sea. The water was calm and the salt air refreshing, but the constant bob up and down had put an uncomfortable knot in his stomach after only a day. 

Angry growls echoed off the bulkhead of the hold as he climbed the stairs. The creature was clearly not happy with having his box kicked. Emerging, he squinted at the bright grayness that surrounded him as his eyes adjusted. He shoved the hatch shut with his boot, before noticing a particular brooding man standing atop the quarter deck, his thick winter cloak billowing in the sea breeze as though he might take flight at any moment. 

“Snow,” he greeted as he climbed the last stair to join him.

“Clegane,” Jon nodded in his direction, but didn’t take his eyes off the distant coastline.

“Didn’t expect to see you up and moving so soon.”

“Was going mad. Lying in a bed for even as long as I did was the longest I’ve been still since… well, since I was killed by my own men,” Jon sighed, his hand instinctively going to his torso.

“Can’t trust anyone.”

“Just need to trust the right people. Can I trust you?” 

Jon turned to him, looking up with the same cold, inscrutable stare Arya would give him. Even if he was a bastard, he was a Stark through and through. Sandor barked out a curt laugh, meeting the man’s gaze.

“Not a man of many talents, but I can be counted on for two things, Snow: true words and a sharp blade I know how to use. For what we’re heading into, aye, you can trust me.”

With icy silence, Jon regarded him, his dark brow furrowing as he thought. He turned back to the coastline before continuing, his voice stern.

“What are your intentions with my sister?”

“To keep her safe,” Sandor said stolidly as he glanced down at the sliver of red that peaked out beneath his sleeve. What point was there in getting into the details, when that was what it really came down to? Should the day ever come where Arya no longer wanted him, he would still do what he could to ensure she was safe, just as he’d done years prior.

“Winterfell is the safest place for her.”

Sandor looked down at him with a skeptical eye, scoffing. “Nowhere is safe. The dead are marching. You saw them.”

“Aye, but there is a 700-foot wall between them and us still. Cersei’s already blown up one part of King’s Landing, what’s to stop her from destroying the part we’re in?”

“Arya won’t be with us. She’ll use your meeting as a distraction to get into the Red Keep.”

“What do you mean?” Jon shook his head. “They’re going to recognize she’s not someone they know.”

“You heard of the Faceless Men? Your sister went to Braavos and trained to be one. She’s as stealthy as they get. If anyone is going to get to Cersei, it’s her. Let her come, deal with Cersei, and I’ll stay behind to make sure she gets North.”

“What about the throne? If Cersei’s gone—”

“The city’ll fall into a _wee_ bit of chaos,” Sandor shrugged. “Gold Cloaks won’t know who to take orders from, Queensguard won’t either. Let it go tits up while we deal with the threat in the North.”

“The point of going to King’s Landing is to get her support, get her armies,” Jon pointed out.

“Then we’ll secure those before Arya acts,” Sandor spoke as if it were obvious. “Let her go, she’ll be shit help in the North until there is something to do. You’ve seen what happens when she wants something—she rode to Eastwatch, alone, in a snow storm. She’s stubborn and will find her way to Cersei whether you say yes or not. Might as well know where she’ll be.”

Jon’s mouth twisted in contemplation as he considered Sandor’s words. His gloved hands tightly clutched the railing, the weight of the decision written on his face.

“I’ve seen her fight, Snow. She took out a man behind me with a dagger at distance. Flew right by my ear and got ‘im straight in the windpipe. Impressive little wolf, your sister. When you talk to her, ask her about the Freys.”

Jon made a face. “They slaughtered my brother. I’ve heard what happened to them, got what they deserved.”

“Ask her,” Sandor pressed once more before making his way down the stairs, leaving Jon to his decision.

 

* * *

 

_\- Two weeks later -_

Screeching a call out to each other, the two winged beasts twisted through the clouds that hung low along the cliffs of the island ahead. Arya couldn’t help the stupid grin on her face as she watched them circle the high fortress that cut through the blue sky, imposing and sinister. As if the dragons weren’t threat enough.

“That’s Dragonstone,” Jon pointed out.

“Well it’s definitely not White Harbor,” Arya shot him a sly look before her face softened. “Thank you, for letting me come.”

“Clegane made a compelling argument,” he mused as he pulled her into a hug with one arm. “You’re just as stubborn as you were as a child, it’s better to know what you’re planning than you sneaking behind my back. Just do me a favor and be smart. I just got you back, Arya, I couldn’t stand to lose you again.” 

Arya buried her face in her brother’s chest, the fur of his cloak tickling her nose. “We all die, brother.”

“Aye, but let’s try to prolong it as much as we can.”

She looked over her shoulder to see Sandor leaning against a mast, just behind them, ever her silent shadow. Arya turned back to the shore line with an easy smile, watching as they approached the menacing island and its eerily calm harbor. Serrated rocks disappeared down into the beach and up into the high cliffs above, layered like an exquisite cake had toppled over. 

It was a place that Arya had dreamed about many times as a child, with decreasing frequency as she got older. Yet the moment she stepped off the small boat and onto the wet sand of Dragonstone, vivid images of the stories Old Nan and Maester Luwin used to tell came flooding back. She had to look a fool, walking around wide-eyed and slack-jawed, but she didn’t see the people around her—only dragons and Targaryens and the history of the place she stood.

“Vhagar and Meraxes were born here,” she mumbled absently as they walked through the iron gate flanked with two stone dragon heads. “Meraxes could eat a horse whole and Vhagar’s fire could melt a knight’s armor, cooking him inside.” Arya looked up to see the black dragon fly overhead. “Drogon looks like he could easily do both.”

“Best to stay on his good side then,” Sandor grumbled, eyeing the screeching beast as it flapped its great wings with a thunder that rivaled the Gods’.

Arya couldn’t decide where her eyes were going to go as they walked through the black stone yard. Everything was covered in shiny black dragonglass, melted and bent into intricate shapes. On one side was the armory and smithy, with a pair of elaborate wings covering it. Men were sorting piles of black, shiny rocks that looked to also be dragonglass. On the other side was an ominous looking citadel, towering and menacing with lanterns lit in the eyes of the dragon’s head that hung over the archway.

Along the inner battlements were terrible looking beasts—dragons, hellhounds, wyverns, basilisks and more—all staring down at her with angry, silent screams coming from their toothed mouths. Climbing the steps to their temporary quarters, her fingers ran along the railings that looked like dragon tails, feeling the bumpy scales as though they were real under her touch. Her skin prickled at the idea of actually touching one of Daenerys’ dragons. Arya hoped it would be soon. Dragon claws held torches along the corridor she was led down and she wondered if they were real.

With more space than the small ship that carried them to the island, Arya was given her own room for their short stay at Dragonstone. It was dark like the rest of the castle, with only a tall, narrow sliver of a window that looked out to the blackening sky. She placed her pack on the modest bed that sat in the middle of the room. A large hearth was situated across from it, carved to look like a dragon’s mouth, complete with stone teeth along the top and bottom. It was marvelously intricate in comparison to Winterfell, and wonderfully brooding unlike the gilded Red Keep. In some ways, it reminded her of the House of Black and White. 

It wasn’t long until she heard a knock. Pulling the heavy wooden door open, a woman she didn’t recognize stood quietly, with a timid smile upon her thin lips. 

“Lady Arya, Queen Daenerys has requested your presence in the Chamber of the Painted Table. Might I escort you?”

Eyeing her belongings hesitantly, she looked back at the young woman, whose warmth she welcomed in the harshness of the castle. With a nod, she adjusted her sword belt and closed the door behind her.

They made small talk as they walked down the black corridor, the soft thud of their boots echoing off the hard surfaces around them. One thing Arya still prided herself on was her ease in getting to know people, a skill that had only gotten better with her training.

“How long have you been in the service of Daenerys?”

“Since Queen Daenerys bought and freed me from my former slave owner in Astapor.”

“If she freed you, why are you still here?” The dragon queen must have done something to inspire such loyalty. 

“I believe in her cause and want to support it however I can. She gave me a second chance and wants to do the same for so many others; she already has in the Bay of Dragons.”

“Bay of Dragons? I’m not familiar.”

“My apologies, Slaver’s Bay. It was renamed in her honor after she rid it of its slave trade.”

“Impressive. Why not stay there and rule?”

“Because this is her rightful place, on the Iron Throne of Westeros.” Arya saw the briefest hesitation in her step as though the woman wished to stop and make a stand. 

“Is it?” she prodded. “Seems everyone thinks they’re the rightful heir to that blasted thing.”

They arrived at their destination before Missandei could offer any more words of support for the Targaryen. The intricately carved double doors were partially open, a menagerie of dull voices pouring into the hall, including her brother’s. The room was cavernous and dark, like so much of the castle, with ornate dragons carved along the walls and a large balcony that overlooked the sea at one end. The most impressive thing was not the dragons however, but the giant wooden table in the center of the room, shaped and painted to resemble Westeros. 

In what had to be a strategic formation were pawns of various shapes and sizes representing the forces throughout the Seven Kingdoms: a roaring lion’s head for the Lannisters, a screeching dragon’s head for Targaryen, a snarling wolf for the Starks, a malevolent kraken for House Greyjoy and a few others knocked over and out of the way, like the Tyrell flower and the Baratheon stag.

Most attendants were huddled towards the side where Dragonstone and King’s Landing were painted, with dragons surrounding the capital. 

“It will be a show of force, your Grace,” came a proud voice from the middle of the group. 

Arya moved around to the western edge to get a better look and was surprised to see Tyrion Lannister standing at the center, with Jon and Daenerys flanking him. She caught eyes with Sandor briefly, before Tyrion noticed her as well.

“My my, if it isn’t Arya Stark. To think I considered your brother a liar when he said you had arrived. Should have known better than to question the honesty of Jon Snow.” 

Tyrion gave her a warm smile, nodding his big head in her direction. He looked nothing like she remembered; this man was older, scarred and ready for winter. Just like everyone else.

“I hear it’s your intention to kill my sister after our meeting,” he inquired wryly. 

“Yes. For her part in—”

The dwarf waved his hand dismissively. “No need. To be honest, it’s a long time coming.”

“My little birds may be able to help find you better passage into the Red Keep, my lady, if you so desire the assistance,” a bald, round man offered in a honeyed tone. “I haven’t many any more, thanks to Cersei’s Hand and Maester Qyburn, but what I do have, I humbly offer.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met…” Arya tried to place the voice; somewhere in her distant memory it struck a chord, but nothing came to her.

“Forgive me. I am Varys, former Master of Whisperers to King Robert and currently offering said services to Queen Daenerys,” he bowed his head, his sleeves rustling though he did not remove his hands from them. “As best I can, anyway.”

“Can we get this shite finished already?” Sandor grumbled from against the wall behind the group. Arya couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at her lips.

“In a hurry to be somewhere, Clegane?” Tyrion poked, glancing over his shoulder at the tall man.

“Anywhere is better than listening to this endless prattle. Make up your bloody minds, already.” 

“He’s right,” Daenerys spoke, resting her hands on the table as she eyed King’s Landing. “We’ve talked enough. We will arrive in two days’ time. The Dothraki and Unsullied who are returning from the Reach and the Westerlands will station on the west side of the city, our ships will flank the east in the Blackwater.”

“What of the dragons, your Grace?”

Daenerys frowned, casting her eyes down briefly. Arya suspected she was hesitant to bring them into danger once more. 

“I will arrive with Drogon, Rhaegal will stay here with a small retainer of men to guard Dragonstone,” she ordered at last, steeling her shoulders in her resolve. 

“Are we done then?” Sandor pushed himself from the wall with a grunt. Not waiting for an answer, he made his way to the door, but not before catching Arya’s eye. 

“By all means, Clegane,” Tyrion rolled his eyes, but the scarred man was already gone. 

 

* * *

“Figured you’d be glad to be off that ship,” Arya said softly as she leaned on the stone merlon beside him, looking down at the long walkway towards the beach.

Sandor shook his head in exasperation. “Don’t know why they drag me to those things. Just tell me what to do.”

“You whine about not wanting to be told what to do, this is what comes from that. You have a lot of experience, anyhow, especially when it comes to King’s Landing—they value your opinion.” 

Sandor scoffed at the notion as he looked down at her. Tendrils of dark hair fell over her face from the gentle breeze that wafted up from the shore. It wasn’t often she wore her hair loose, but he didn’t complain when she did. Somehow she managed to look a little bit wilder, a bit more free. Absently she brushed it from her moonlit face, tucking the strands behind her ear. With others milling about in the Great Hall behind them, he resisted the desperately annoying urge to kiss it.

“Jon says there are drawings from the Children of the Forest in the caves just around that cove,” she nodded vaguely to the beach. “I had always thought they were just stories, and then Bran started turning all of that upside down. What other stories are true?”

“Too many,” Sandor grumbled, turning from the coast to lean back against the low wall. Crossing his arms, he studied the people sitting at the tables inside.

A roar of laughter echoed off the cavernous space as Davos and Tyrion shared tales of Essos. They had been talking about it when he came out to the balcony, and didn’t look to have finished. Hearing talk of warm, far off places only served to sour his mood more than the cold air did. 

“I saw several flagons of wine that hadn’t been touched yet,” Arya said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. The hair she’d tucked behind her ear had come loose again. 

“A belly of wine, a warm bed, the floor beneath me not fucking rocking,” Sandor hummed in contentment. The coy smirk Arya shot him didn’t go unnoticed. “You go without saying.”

“Yet you said it anyway,” she pointed out, her lip twitching in amusement. 

“Whose floor?” Distant, warm memories of their time in Winterfell teased him.

Arya clicked her teeth in jest as she pushed away from the wall, turning her back to the Great Hall. She bounced ever so slightly on the ball of her feet, her hands tucked behind her back as she bit her lip. Her damned hair fell over her face once more, and Sandor thought the floor beneath them would work just fine.

“Might be our last feather bed for some time,” she murmured impishly. “The question isn’t whose floor, but whose _bed_?” 

Arya turned on her foot then, leaving him to watch her from the balcony as she weaved through the group of people and made her way towards the chamber halls. Guess he was grabbing the wine.


	3. Well, Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group arrives in Kings Landing. As Arya enters the Red Keep, Sandor meets a few men in Flea Bottom.

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

The anxious energy around them was palpable as they stood together on the deck of the ship, approaching the massive city. Birds circled above, tiny dots lazily spinning above the capital. Soon enough, a dragon would take their place. 

When Arya was last in Kings Landing she was fleeing with Yoren, Gendry and Hot Pie, disguised as a boy heading to the Wall, shortly after her father’s head rolled. Now she was coming from the Wall with her disguise in her pack, intent on serving justice to the woman who masterminded her father’s eventual execution. 

Sandor tried not to imagine the Blackwater glowing green on the night he abandoned his position as Joffrey’s dog to eventually run with a wolf. Bile rose in his throat as he remembered the men, screaming and running along the shore, the acrid smell of burning flesh searing his nostrils.

His cloak shifted as Arya grasped his hand beneath the hidden safety of the fabric where no eyes could see. It was a soft, timid touch that he hoped was not due to the unknowns that lie ahead. Now was no time for her to second guess herself; she needed to be focused and ruthless, like he’d seen her be in the Neck some months ago. Like he knew she had been before they met, and could and would be when they were not together. His stomach twisted at the mere thought.

He met her gaze and was relieved to see the cold, calculated eyes of a wolf on the prowl. Good girl. But when she spoke, so low that only he could hear, her voice cracked ever so slightly, causing him to frown.

“We’ll be home shortly.” 

It wasn’t quite a question, but not quite a statement either. Before he could respond, Arya squeezed his hand once before turning to make her way to the bow where her brother stood with his and Daenerys’s advisors. Might as well check on the dead man once more.

“How many people live here?” 

“Million, give or take,” Tyrion estimated. He seemed as pleased to be back as the rest of them were.

“That’s more people than the entire North, crammed into that,” Jon shook his head. “Why would anyone want to live that way?”

“There’s more work in the city. And the brothels are far superior,” the imp said with a dark grin. 

“It’s miserable and you’re not missing out on anything,” Arya chimed in dully from beside Davos. 

“The lady is right on that account. Can’t say I’m too pleased to be back here so soon,” the old man glowered in the direction of capital city. 

 

* * *

It was obvious that the Iron Gate had not been used in some time, but it’s proximity to both the Dragon Pit and the Blackwater proved it the best, least obtuse way to bring a walking dead man into the city. 

A retainer of Lannister men awaited them at the docks, looking hesitantly to the sky when they did not see the white-haired woman they’d no doubt been told about. Sandor smirked, remembering the green boys he’d sparred with when he was still Joffrey’s dog. With ease he’d knock them down and with dim wits, they’d get right back up. They were stupid, but they were resilient. 

With few words exchanged and the crate loaded on a cart, they made their way through the gates. There was no turning back now. 

They moved slowly through the narrow streets of Flea Bottom. A maze of unpaved, narrow alleys and streets twisted and criss-crossed over the widest of the roads, which was barely enough for the cart and the soldiers beside it. Despite being mid-day, it felt like dusk, with buildings that leaned in towards the center of the street on either side, blocking most of the sunlight from hitting the muddy streets. Arya tried to tell herself it was mud, but the rank, pungent smell that clung to her throat suggested otherwise.

Dirty children eyed them deviously from dark corridors, their intentions clear beneath the caked on filth as they fingered tiny shivs made of stolen metal and stone. Arya gripped the hilt of Needle tightly with one hand and clutched the strap of her pack with the other. If she lost the pack, getting into the Red Keep would prove hard, even with Varys’s help. 

Despite the dubious glances from the residents, Arya and Sandor came to a stop at the back of the caravan. Jon looked back briefly, giving her the smallest wave and a remorseful smile. He’d berated her endlessly about being safe—in fact, Arya thought, this would be the first time in a fort night that she wouldn’t have his worries in her ear. She returned the wave meekly before moving off the street.

“This is where we split.” 

She leaned against the mud wall behind her, looking up at him with clear, bright eyes despite the darkness of the narrow corridor they’d ducked into. Sandor rested one hand beside her head, effectively shielding them with the tattered yellow cloak he wore. It was the last shred of his protection she’d have until they reunited, just down the street, in three days time. They would quietly leave the city through hidden tunnels that led to the tourney grounds, a desolate area where they could easily begin their trek back North. Or so they had to hope.

“Aye,” Sandor’s brow furrowed deeply as he ran his thumb over her cheek. 

Not wanting to draw out their goodbye, both because dwelling on the dangers ahead did them no good and standing still in a shady place was a questionable idea at best, Arya pulled on the front of his gambeson as she stood on her toes to kiss him. It was a hungry kiss, a desperate kiss as though they’d never touch one another again. She tried not to focus on that.

Sandor grasped the side of her face, moving to thread his fingers into the soft hair along her nape. He wanted to kiss her where those little hairs faded to soft skin, wanted to lift her off her feet, press her against the dingy wall and take her right there. Bugger the smell of shit and the beady eyes watching them. Bugger this whole damned city and these stupid plans. The Starks were intent on putting themselves in compromising situations it seemed, yet here he was, not wanting to leave the side of one of them. Who was the stupid one?

“Still time to leave—we could book passage and go to Essos, like we talked about years ago. Remember that? Right before the farmer came by. Before you called me the worst shit in the Seven Kingdoms for stealing his coin,” he chuckled into her mouth. “It’s warm there, plenty of work. Don’t much care which city it is, just want you away from this mess.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Arya said breathlessly against his chest as he kissed her forehead. “I need this. Jon, Sansa, Bran. They all need this.”

“I know, I know,” he sighed. “Can’t blame me for trying once more, can you?”

She looked up at him with a sad smile, lifting a hand to his scarred cheek. In the back of his mind he realized he no longer flinched when she did that. “One day. But now, I have unfinished business, and you have a dead man to catch up with.” 

Sandor’s lips twisted into a wry smirk beneath his long whiskers. Arya pulled him down for a final, quick peck before ducking under his cloak and heading towards the street.

“Wait—” He had no idea what he wanted from her, other than for her to not go. Just one more moment. What if it was the last time he saw her?

She stopped at the alley entrance, only a few feet from him, looking up expectantly. Her hair was still mussed from the windy ship ride and her steel eyes sparkled with something akin to calculated mischief. Sandor took a moment to appreciate it, cursing himself for letting the she-wolf claw her way into his heart. _Destiny_ , a gravely voice called in the back of his head. _Fuck off, Beric._

“What?” Arya lifted a dark brow impatiently, tapping her foot.

“Be safe, wolf-girl.” 

“As best I can.” 

And then she was gone.

 

* * *

It seemed counter productive to walk back out the gate she had just entered, but it was her best chance at getting into the Red Keep without the hassle of the City Watch manning the gilded gates. Assuming she could remember her way through the tunnels once she found the sewage entrance, it would only be a few hours before she was popping up in the cellars beneath the Red Keep, where Balerion the Dread and the other dragon skulls still sat collecting dust. Perhaps one day they would be displayed proudly in the Great Hall once more. She still wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

Her limited interactions with Daenerys over the last few weeks had left her with more questions than answers. From conversations with Tyrion, Davos, Missandei and Jon, she had begun to form a picture of the woman who wanted the throne. Arya heard the terrible stories, like Drogon roasting more than half of the Lannister men along the Roseroad, her burning a lord and his son alive despite Tyrion’s best efforts or crucifying the masters of Meereen. 

She also heard the good stories, like how she liberated thousands from slavery, how she’d inspired and convinced several Dothraki khalasars to ride across the Narrow Sea to foreign lands and how she wanted the best for the people of Westeros, not to make them cower in fear like they did with Cersei. With a house saying like ‘Fire and Blood’ it was a bit hard to see her as anything different than her father, the Mad King.

From the sounds of it, Cersei had taken the role of Mad Queen before Daenerys had set foot in Westeros. Add it to the never ending list of atrocities she’d caused and Arya didn’t think the smallfolk, or most of the other Kingdoms’ lords and ladies, would be sad to see her gone. 

Picking her way over the slick boulders, Arya made her way towards the stained tunnel that would lead her into the Red Keep. Looming over her, partially hidden behind the high stone wall, was the Tower of the Hand, where her father had once lived. Varys had provided her with directions to get into the tower, putting her close to a man named Qyburn, who was the new Hand, if she wanted to take care of him as well. It was an alternate route in the event her chosen one did not work out as well as she hoped, but she would not go out of her way to execute a man who she did not know, whose crimes, if any, were not hers to judge.

With a final glimpse of the red stone towers, Arya ducked into the tunnel, trying her best to breathe through the wet, thick stench of excrement that wafted heavy in the air. Thankfully, it wouldn’t be far before she was out of this part of the tunnel and into narrow corridors that twisted back and forth, forking off and leading up and down in a dizzying combination of routes. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention as she disappeared into the darkness. 

 

* * *

Sandor watched as the Targaryen-Stark entourage left the pit, crunching on the pebbled path as they were escorted by Lannister soldiers to the Iron Gate. The meeting had ended, but just barely the way it needed to. He looked down at the bones at his feet in disgust, kicking at them absently as he processed what to do next. 

Gregor’s bloated face came to mind. What had happened to his brother? Sandor hadn’t been sure if he was even in King’s Landing, but to see him looking just as bad as the creature in the box almost made him feel sympathy. Almost.

When Sandor first laid eyes on Gregor, coming down the path behind Cersei, he had wanted to draw his sword immediately. Those red eyes and that purple face, however, told him his brother was no longer there, that he had died long ago. Could he want dead what was already dead?

Scraping boots on stone made his ears prick backwards. He turned to see Brienne moving closer. They were the only two left in the pit.

“You’d think that dolt would’ve learned about the consequences of his actions when his Brothers stuck a knife in his heart,” Sandor grumbled. “By the skin of our necks we convinced her. Whatever the imp told her, thank the gods for the little man…”

The slightest smile tugged at Brienne’s lips as she came to stand beside him, looking down at the corpse. “Ser Jaime called him the same thing.” She shook her head, eyes downcast as though to sear the image of the creature into her mind. 

“I was hesitant about what this unknown threat was, but after seeing this… _thing_ … my mind is made up. The sooner I return to Winterfell and am by Lady Sansa’s side, the better I’ll feel.”

“The sooner I get a _drink_ the better I’ll feel.”

“Pod went off with Ser Bronn—”

Sandor snorted. “ _Ser_ Bronn. Haven’t had a drink with that cunt since the night he lit the Blackwater on fire.”

Brienne continued unfazed. “Might you know where they are?”

“Aye, there’s a tavern in Flea Bottom he wouldn’t shut up about. Good ale, he says, so long as you don’t get stabbed trying to get in.”

Brienne made a sour face but followed him out the side entrance of the Dragon Pit into Flea Bottom. Twisted old trees with moss hanging from their limbs slowly gave way to crumbling stone buildings before finally turning into some semblance of habitability. Not that he was a fan of the place himself, but it made him laugh to see the poorly concealed sneer on the ever-proper Lady of Tarth’s face. 

“So Lady Arya is safe?” 

“Could be dead, for all I know,” Sandor said nonchalantly, though the mere thought made his skin flush and his stomach twist in an angry knot. 

“What do you mean, ‘ _for all you know_ ’?” Brienne blinked incredulously at him. He had not missed being on the receiving end of that look.

“The girl went into the Red Keep intent on killing the Queen, who knows what she’s dealing with.” He looked down to the red at his wrist with a frown. “She’ll be fine.”

“She’s _here_? In King’s Landing?” She looked aghast, hesitating in her step only slightly. 

“Aye, off to cross the last name from her little list.”

“How exactly did she come to be… _here_?”

“Heard her brother was at Eastwatch, rode up alone—in a fucking snow storm, the crazy bitch. Stayed with us until now,” Sandor shrugged, side stepping a group of rowdy, filthy children running past.

As they walked, Brienne rubbed her brow painfully, processing the new information. “And her brother let her do this?”

“She’s not some dog on a leash, Tarth.”

“That would explain why you didn’t follow the group you arrived with, you’re waiting for her. What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Lady Arya?”

Sandor scoffed. “What’s it to you?”

“I swore to Lady Catelyn that I would protect both of her daughters—”

“Aye, and last time you got between us you almost killed me. I warrant that won’t happen again,” he eyed her, only partially in jest.

“So there is something ‘between’ you two…” Brienne deduced. 

“I’m too sober for this,” Sandor snapped. “Here, just up on the left,” he nodded to the tavern ahead with a half-fallen sign hanging over the door with a bird on its back.

“‘The Woozy Warbler’?” Brienne cocked a brow, pausing outside the establishment.

“Never said the folks in Flea Bottom were particularly creative people,” he shrugged as he made his way in, ducking through the doorway. Brienne followed in similar suit.

Inside it smelled almost as bad as it did outside. The stench of pig shit and unclean, working men permeated every surface, and stung their noses and eyes as they looked around for their party. It wasn’t hard to spot the only two clean men in the whole place, sitting near the back. The four of them looked quite out of place, but with sharp steel at their hips and Bronn’s kurki knife sitting on the table in front of him, no one seemed keen to bother them. 

“Sandor _fucking_ Clegane,” Bronn eyed the man. “Too much bullshit earlier with you fancy lot to say anything but what in seven hells are you doing back in this shit heap?”

Sandor took a heavy seat across from the sellsword, downing most of a horn of ale as he watched the man. He wiped at his beard before speaking. 

“Someone had to haul that dead thing around.” 

“Give the dirty job to the dog, aye?” Bronn chuckled. Sandor grunted noncommittally, finishing off the horn.

“Not bad ale,” he conceded as he set the mug on the table with a hollow thud. The barmaid was quick to refill.

“Hah! Told you!” Bronn let out a hearty chuckle, pounding his fist on the table in amusement, spooking the squire. “Gods, that was a life time ago, wasn’t it? Shit. Saved your ass that night, as the Blackwater burned.” He shook his head. “So, what was it like north of the Wall? It’s been ages since I was up there.”

“Cold.”

“You went north of the Wall?” Pod’s brown eyes went wide as he turned to the sellsword. 

Bronn bristled at the attention like a peacock showing off its plumage. “Aye. Some southern lord wanted some northern lord dead, but the northern lord offered me more to take care of some wildling cunt who was ambushing his Keep. Took care of the wildling, got paid by the northern lord, then took care of the northern lord and got paid by the southern lord. Done my best to avoid the North ever since.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Brienne sneered absently as she looked around the tavern. Righteousness seemed to ooze from her very being. 

It wasn’t long before Brienne and Podrick left to join the others on the way back to Dragonstone. Sandor had several more pints as Bronn yammered on about how much of a cunt Jaime Lannister had been to him over the past few years. On more than one occasion he found it necessary to grumble about his promised castle. 

“They’ll all be knocked down by the time this is all over,” Sandor pointed out before tipping back the horn and finishing it off. 

“Now ain’t that the truth,” Bronn sighed heavily; it was clearly something he had thought about, and often. “Ah, I should see how Jaime is planning to fuck me in the arse this time. Clegane.” 

The sellsword nodded and saw himself out, leaving Sandor alone for the next three days. Gods, he hoped it wasn’t a full three days. The idea of keeping himself busy but not recognized would be near impossible unless he stayed in his room. Realizing he hadn’t actually _paid_ for a room, he made to head down the street to do just that. As he came to his feet, a bit too quickly, the room spun. _There’s no way I drank enough to feel like this._

Squaring his shoulders and shaking his head to clear the fuzz that tried to take over, he left the tavern to make his way to the inn. 

He knew the residents of Flea Bottom were not actually swirling around him, and he knew a black fog had not overtaken the narrow street. What he did know is that he could barely walk. Leaning against a mud wall, Sandor tried to compose himself but found it difficult. His mouth was like cotton and his eyes were growing heavier by the moment. This wasn’t the ale, this was poison. Who would poison him? Who even knew he was here?

As he slid down the wall, his vision dimming rapidly, he saw four soldiers in black and silver plate approaching. Queensguard. A fucking woman had poisoned him. Cersei hadn’t forgotten nor forgiven. 


	4. You Shouldn't Be Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Arya makes her way through the Red Keep, Sandor wakes up in an unexpected place.

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

A voice, sweet as candied plums and warm as mulled wine, echoed around him, faint and muffled, as though someone had shoved cotton deep into his ears. It had been calling for awhile now, he was certain, yet when he tried to remember when it had started, he couldn’t. 

‘Sandor! Sandor!’

The voice was the same one that had taunted him in the Vale. As he had laid amongst the rocks, bleeding out, when the only thing he could remember was her voice, her last words to him, and her laugh, soothing as spring rain, echoing off the cliffs around him. 

_‘You gonna die?’_

Now they spoke of things that might never again be, twisting like a rusted dagger in his heart. He longed to hear her louder, clearer. Everything was still so damned muffled, as though he were sinking further underwater.

_‘You’re the only one I’ve got, Sandor.’_ No, you've a family to avenge as well.

_‘I’m home. You could be home too.’_ Where am I now?

_‘You’re not leaving me again.’_ You’re the one who left.

Hot bile churned in his stomach, threatening to erupt at any moment as he mulled bitterly over their goodbye. What he wouldn’t give to find her right now, to berate her for going off on such an ill-advised mission before pulling her close, crushing his lips to hers and never letting go. His feet felt like they had lead weights attached to them, pulling him into hell, and the skin on his wrists was pinched so tightly he was certain he was bleeding.

When he tried to move, he found resistance as though he were in a vat of thick, day-old porridge. Not that he knew where to go, he didn’t even know where he was. Trying to open his eyes was of no success, yet somehow he was beginning to see a faint shape in the distance.

The room—was it a room?—was pitch black, dark as a starless night, but ahead came a warm glow he was drawn to. Even though he could not walk, he seemed to move towards it anyhow, to see a figure perched atop a rock. It was a small shape, shrouded in darkness beneath the thick billows of a winter cloak. Twirling in its tiny hands was a dagger, sharp and polished, with a decorative hilt he’d recognize anywhere.

‘Arya…?’

Behind him came a rumbling noise he felt from his feet to his gut and a pair of yellow eyes appeared before him, cat-like and large. No, not cat-like. Wolf-like. It’s presence hung in the air like the stench of death, heavy and foreboding and altogether sour. Baring sharp, white teeth, the creature, black and wispy as though it were partly smoke, moved past him, towards the figure on the rock. 

‘Leave her be!’ His voice echoed off the invisible walls around them, gravely and deep. 

‘Something that is me cannot leave me, Sandor Clegane.’

Her voice was clear now, as though she were standing beside him. His fingers twitched, aching to reach out and touch her once more, wherever she truly was. The yellow-eyed black fog swirled around the hooded figure, as though it meant to devour her in its shadows.

Sandor moved closer and the wolf-cloud stopped, hovering over the figure’s shoulder, teeth bared and a low rumble like distant thunder in its nonexistent throat. 

‘You shouldn’t be here, you know,’ she said, pulling the hood back. 

The figure was not Arya, though it had her voice. Its face was white, like a porcelain mummer’s mask, with icy blue eyes that seemed to stare through him. The same blue he remembered from weeks past. 

‘You should have gone home.’

‘You’re my home.’ His voice sounded more defeated than he wanted.

‘You’re a wild dog but you’ll never be a wolf.’ 

An invisible gust blew the cloak wildly about the figure as it came to its feet. Like a harpy, the wolf-cloud began a painful yowl before spinning around her like an angry storm, devouring the blue eyes in its nothingness.

‘Arya, no!’ Again, he tried to move towards her, but was frustratingly stuck in place.

Thunderous howling echoed before turning into a screeching whine, piercing him with a chill like he hadn’t experienced since he was north of the Wall. Looking past the thick arm that protected his face from the torrent around him, Sandor watched as the black cloud parted, and in the place of the blue-eyed figure, stood Arya. With a solemn, grey-eyed stare, she regarded him, her tawny locks brushing her cheeks, her nose, her lips. _Please._

‘It can only be one of us, you know that.’

‘What..? I don’t understa—’

‘It was only ever supposed to be one of us. It was supposed to be me, and now death has come for you once more. Your name is owed.’

Sandor watched as the wolf devoured her again in a swirl of angry black fog. Slowly, the black began turning white and flakes, cold and light, fell on his shoulders—since when were his shoulders bare?—as a blizzard took the place of the wolf. Squinting, he made out the shape of Arya once more and moved—painfully slowly—towards it. 

‘I won’t leave you, I told you that!’ 

‘It doesn’t matter what you want.’

As he approached the figure, the snows parted and in front of him she stood, solid and alive as ever, two arms’ length away. Arya stalked towards him with erratic, slow movements, her head hanging low as though she were watching her feet. Her mouth twitched upon her sunken in face as she lifted her head, and Sandor froze as she opened her eyes to stare at him. Blue.

The ground beneath him rumbled and he looked around for the angry wolf-cloud, only to see swirling white wetness that stung his face. Squinting his eyes, he turned back to where Arya had stood but she was no longer there. Frantically he looked for her, for anything, but the snow made it impossible to see a thing. 

And then it got hot. Very, very hot.

 

* * *

“Hm… this won’t do,” Arya mumbled to herself as she stood in front of the iron gate that blocked her passage into the undercroft.

Digging in her pack, past provisions and spare faces, she pulled out a small canvas roll and laid it out at her feet. The steel was cold on her fingertips as she ran them along the small picks, looking for the right size and shape for the lock in question. 

Once she had been able to slide through the bars with ease, but even though she was still thin, she was definitely not that small anymore. A sad smile ghosted across her lips as she worked on the lock, recalling the reason she had been down here in the first place. Chasing cats. That had been the start of it, her affection for the Braavosi way of fighting. Elegant, nimble, quiet. None of that hacking and grunting, like men with large swords. Like Sandor. 

Arya wondered how the meeting was going, or if it was over already. With no light, she found it hard to keep track of how much time had passed. It could have been two hours, it could have been four. Meandering through narrow tunnels like a mole, sniffing her way towards fresh air and feeling for dry walls, had seemed to go on for ages. 

The lock clicked, echoing in the hollow chambers in front of her. At last, she was within the Red Keep. Using the storage cellars as her base of operations, she would work, preparing poison for her blades and gathering clothing of the appropriate variety to get close to Cersei. 

Closing the gate quietly behind her, Arya listened for anyone that might have ventured down here. Varys had told her no one visited the dragon cellar, not unless they had unsavory business to attend to, and with Cersei as Queen, what was the point in hiding those matters any longer?

With a piece of flint and the side of a small dirk, she lit the torch she’d found along the wall just outside the gate. The light blossomed around her, sending exaggerated shadows down the long corridors, making the never-ending arches look like hundreds of caves to explore. Barrels, boxes and baskets laid stacked and scattered about, all covered in a thick brown dust. 

Moving the torch around, she threw orange light onto the massive skull of Balerion the Dread. The skin on the back of her neck prickled and her hairs stood on edge as she moved slowly towards it.

It was just as big as she’d remembered it as a child. A single tooth was the size of her arm, and the horns sprouting from his head were easily twice, if not thrice, the size of her. Despite its rough appearance, the surface was smooth. Layers of dust slid off, tickling her nose, as she ran her hand along his jaw, his eye socket, and up to his snout. 

A hollow crunch under her boots drew her attention down to the fragments of bone scattered about the dirt floor. Above her an iron bolt stuck out of the skull, right between its eyes. Cersei had been preparing for Daenerys, it seemed. 

Wasting no time, Arya found a place to make a temporary camp of sorts and pulled a mask from her bag to begin her work on the surface once more. 

 

* * *

Braying dogs echoed just down the corridor, guiding Arya from the darkness and into a small alcove just behind the kennels. The smell of wet dog and feces hung in the air, cloying at her throat but she pushed the minor discomfort aside. Her eyes darted around, looking for signs of people in the area, but found none, giving her the opportunity to move towards the servant’s quarters. Evening was upon the capital now, no doubt dinner time had the servants busy tending to the royal guests. The sooner she could assume their look, the better. 

The dogs were barking at something in the yard on the other side of the building, but one dog, an old black hunting hound with a spotted belly, had turned its attentions towards her. She felt compelled to move closer, letting the dog sniff her hand. It’s brown eyes regarded her cautiously and for a moment Arya worried she’d made a mistake with her affection for animals. The notion was quickly cast aside as the dog’s thick, wet tongue lapped at her hand, nudging it with a warm nose to pet and scratch his head. She rewarded it with a small piece of venison from her hip pouch before moving on to her destination. Animals always knew what was good and what was bad, even if being good meant doing bad.

Disguised as a boy, Arya slipped into the servant quarters. A row of beds lined one wall, half made with treasured belongings stuffed beneath their rickety frames. Several tables lined the other wall, tidy save for a few dirty bowls from the day’s meal. At the end of the room was a hearth that didn’t look to have been lit in some time—a luxury of the south, that even at night they did not require the heat of a fireplace. 

“Oy, boy! What’er ya doin’ ‘ere?”

Arya jumped. She was not supposed to be caught off guard. Whipping around, she was faced with a rather portly woman whose hands were pressed to her soft hips as she waited for answer.

“Well, come on now, out wit’ it! Don’t want to call on the chamberl’in if I don’t ‘ave to.”

“Chamberlain’s one ‘o sent me,” Arya lied. “Said I’s to start workin’ where ‘m needed.”

The older woman regarded the dirty boy in front of her suspiciously for a moment, just long enough that Arya worried her cover would be blown. Her dark eyes raked over the thin boy in front of her, the corner of her mouth twitching as she thought.

“What’s yer name, boy?”

“Mycah, if it please.” Arya felt a chill of remorse over her long-forgotten friend. “Yers, milady?”

“Ain’t no lady, Mycah. You can call me Gretta. You’re gonna have to sleep in the kennels, ain’t no room in ‘ere.” 

Gretta walked past in a huff, towards a cabinet by the hearth. Grumbling to herself, she dug through it and emerged with a set of clean serving linens.

“Put these on, quickly now, and you’ll go to the kitchens to help where Aldith says.”

“Ma’am, pardon, you gots a chamberpot? ‘ad some mean stew earlier, don’t think it was fresh rabbit like they said it were.”

The old lady made a face. “No chamberpot, you think you the Queen now, boy? Go out back, there’s buckets. And hurry! Aldith won’t wait all day for ya!”

Arya hustled off with her bundle of new clothes, relieved that her excuse to not change in front of the woman worked. Quickly she discarded of her ratty clothes and slipped into the plain, itchy linens, concealing a dirk at her ankle and another along her lower back. Just in case. 

Late into the night, Arya went about her business as a servant to the lower lords and ladies of court, listening intently for any useful tidbits as she cleared their plates, refilled their wine, and became an annoying shadow but nothing else. 

“All she does is drink, it’s a wonder she hasn’t put on any weight.”

“Have you seen her lately? She’s definitely put on.”

“No, no, I heard she’s pregnant. Another Lannister bastard with her brother.”

“Did you see the dragon she let into the city? Mad woman, she is.”

“Oh, I bet it was magnificent. So powerful and deadly.”

“Like her. Good thing she’s not the one with them.”

“Not sure the Targaryen girl is any better. Have you heard the stories from Slaver’s Bay?”

It went on like this for hours as she made her way from table to table, hall to hall. To them, she was invisible, which only worked to her advantage. Most of their gossip was low level political in-fighting that she was sure would give her an ulcer. Did they have any idea what hell awaited them from the North? What danger Cersei truly was? 

Arya pushed aside her altruistic notions; she could not save all of them. Sansa, Bran, Jon and Sandor were what mattered, where she had to focus her energy. It hurt, being so close to Sandor, yet so far. She wondered how deep in his cups he was, if he was keeping out of trouble, or if he’d started a brawl when a drunk peasant made a scene. He may have been getting older, but his patience only wore thinner with each passing day. A sad smile flitted across her lips.

Beneath the itchy sleeve of her servant’s tunic, she fingered the thick red string. Always together, even when broken, she had to keep telling herself. Soon enough the string would be whole once more. 

 

* * *

Acrid, burning flesh and searing pain brought him from one nightmare to the next. Everything was black still, but so hot—his hand was burning, melting and he was powerless to do anything about it. He tried to shake himself free but his hands were bound, lifted high above his shoulders at the end of numb arms. 

Visions of the small boy, who had dreamt of becoming a knight one day, screaming in agony as he was held to the brazier flashed before him. One moment the little wooden toy was visible on the floor where it had fallen when Gregor picked him up, and the next there was just red. So much red, violent heat. Sandor pulled and twisted like a trapped animal, desperate to get away from that feeling and that smell.

“You’re a tough one to wake,” he heard the sour, feminine voice call. “Truly I hadn’t intended to resort to such measures so soon, but I’m an impatient woman.”

The heat had dissipated but the angry flare of singed skin lingered, making the old scars from his brother and the ones from his fight with Beric throb painfully. Mustering all his strength, he forced his eyes open to darkness around him. Blurry figures stood in front of him, a man and a woman. 

With effort he blinked a few times, each bringing the figures into more focus. The first was an older man in dark grey robes, with the Hand’s pin clasped to his chest. Sandor’s face screwed up in confusion, eliciting an explanation from the woman.

“This is Qyburn, our maester and my Hand. You can thank him for providing a solution that was strong enough to stun, but not kill. Or perhaps you can curse at him, since what comes next won’t be nearly as pleasant as just being dead.”

Cersei Lannister came into focus, hair cropped tightly to her head, and the same pissed off look she’d always had plastered on her smug face. 

“Dungeon light does you no favors,” he managed to rasp out as he sneered weakly at her.

Cersei laughed, impressed. “Of the things you chose to notice, I would not have thought my appearance one of them.”

“Ugly knows ugly. The fuck am I?”

“Where you should have been all along, clearly.” She waved Qyburn off, leaving the two of them to talk. “You abandoned your post, leaving Joffrey without guard.”

“Pfft, that was years ago. Plenty of cunts in the Kingsguard to do just that,” Sandor pulled at the restraints that bound his hands high to either side of him. His feet just barely touched the ground, making his shoulders ache from the weight of his body. “Don’t put that boy’s death in my hands. I wasn’t the one who poisoned his wine—a woman’s weapon, that. I'm no coward.”

“Hah! You’re a craven dog who ran from his side. You’re the very definition of the word.” 

Cersei paced around the dark cell, lit only by a lone torch which must have been used to burn his hand. It was his sword hand, he noted dreadfully with increasing clarity. Her thick skirts rustled along the dirt floor as she came to stand in front of him once more.

“No, I cannot say that it’s your fault that Joffrey is dead. That would give you far too much credit and that honor belongs to another. But you left your post all the same, and it’s possible that certain events would not have transpired had you been by his side like you were sworn to do.”

“That boy was marked for an early death the day your brother shot his seed up your perfumed cunt,” Sandor scoffed. “Boys like that are born hateful, you’ve met my brother. So what, you plan to leave me down here to starve and go mad? Feed me some poison that makes me suffer more than that bastard of yours?”

“Oh, foolish dog,” she shook her heard, a dark smirk playing on her thin, snake-like lips. Yet they called her a lioness. “That would be far too simple and no fun at all. Speaking of your brother, did you think I wouldn’t notice that little display with Ser Gregor in the Pits? I doubt he remembers you at all, really, but he’ll hurt you all the same.”

Cersei stepped to the side and Sandor looked up through the hair that plastered his cold, sweating face to see Gregor’s massive, dark form filling the doorway. 

“Do with him as you will, Ser Gregor, but do not kill him. Not yet.”

The Mountain came to stand before him, towering placidly. Sandor spit at his brother’s feet, speckling his shiny black boots with saliva. Gregor looked down at his boot, then rammed his knee upwards into Sandor’s chin with a sickening crack. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth at once and he was certain he’d lost a tooth or three.

“Have a good reunion, you two,” Cersei called as she shut the cell door.

 

* * *

On the second day, when she’d gotten her hands on a handmaiden’s dress, Arya made her way through the halls of the Red Keep, feigning ignorance and innocence when she was questioned. Stupid girl, they’d call her. Little did they know. 

Meandering into a courtyard, she paused to figure out her next move. Ahead on the path, a large fountain babbled its soft song as the trees danced in the light breeze. The air was cooler than she remembered, but still had an autumn warmth.The blooms had long since faded, but the leaves were still partially on the trees. Orange and red covered the stone walkway, scattered like tiny bloody bodies as though a war amongst the trees had occurred overnight. They were soft under her boots as she walked along the path towards the fountain. 

Two Lannister soldiers were across the yard, leaning against columns with their backs to her, clearly avoiding their duties. Her intent had been to continue on towards Cersei’s chambers to see how far she could get, until one of them mentioned something she never expected to hear.

“You ‘ear the Queen got ‘er dog back?”

“Didn’t know she ‘ad a dog.”

Arya moved closer, settling on a bench not far from them where she wouldn’t draw their attention. Her ears pricked as she tried to listen over the pounding of her own heart. _Please, no._

“Bah, you green boy—never ‘eard o’ the dog that watched Joffrey?”

“That was Clegane right? Thought that was the big man that follows ‘er everywhere.”

“That thing’s no man—‘ave you seen ‘im without ‘is ‘elmet? That’s a dead man walking,” the older soldier scoffed. “No, this is the younger brother. Stupid cunt came to the meeting with that dragon whore yesterday. ‘e think ‘e wouldn’t get snagged? Daft, I tell ye.”

“So, what? She got ‘im in the black cells? Put the dog back in ‘is cage?”

They both snickered. Arya clenched the stone edge of the bench, digging her nails into it with all her strength. She felt her nails bend and crack against the pressure, but she cared little.

“‘e’s not even in the black cells, Cersei ain’t holdin’ back on ‘im.”

“Torture chambers?” The other guard balked.

“Aye,” the first guard said solemnly. “That dog is in for a long beating. Word is Gregor went down last night and hasn’t come back up since.”

“Brothers together again at last, eh?”

A malignant laugh echoed off the stone as they made their way down the hall. Arya felt stuck in her place as her heart throbbed in her chest, angry and loud. A cold sweat had developed on her skin, made colder by the cool breeze. 

_It couldn’t be, could it?_ Her eyes darted around, making sure no one noticed her before she took off back to her cellar hideout. Perhaps it was all a mistake. Perhaps he was still sitting bored in a dingy inn in Flea Bottom cursing her for taking so long. It was not a time to take chances though; she had to find a way into the lowest level of the dungeon, and quickly.


	5. Third Time's the Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion of brothers continues. Plus, a bit of bad luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is quite a bit long, clocking in at close to 4,800 words. You have been warned. :)

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

Sandor spit out the thick, clotted blood that had collected in his mouth as he glared up at his brother through swollen, black eyes. He’d been whipped and beaten, sliced and burned, and could feel every muscle vibrate in agony.

“The hell is the point of all of this? You don’t even know who I am, what I’ve done—what I _haven’t_ done. Fucking rotting piece of shit, kill me and get it over with!”

But Gregor didn’t talk. Gregor didn’t laugh, didn’t smile, didn’t do but what he was told to do: hurt but don’t kill. Gregor didn’t drink, didn’t eat, didn’t sleep. While he had no idea how long it had been, it had to have been at least a day and Sandor just wanted an eternal sleep, despite everything. With a bevy of back-handed slaps with iron gauntlets, he finally thought he would get that sleep as everything went black. 

A spring field surrounded him, sun kissing his face with its warm rays. The air still held a chill to it; winter had only been gone for six moons but the grasses shot up past the melting snow drifts defiantly and the birds chirped delicate songs in the twisted apple trees where they’d tied up their horses. 

The apple was sweet and fresh in his mouth, first of the season and unlike anything he’d ever eaten. He stared out over the meadow towards the castle in the distance—Winterfell. Home. From here he could still see the tumbled walls, the singed trees of the Godswood, and the men tossing jests back and forth as they worked to rebuild the stronghold. 

Small arms reached over his shoulders, tawny hair tickling his good cheek as Arya grabbed the apple and took a loud bite out of it. She handed it back to him with a grin before turning his head and placing a saccharine kiss on his lips. A low growl rumbled in his throat as he snaked his arms around her small waist and pulled her into his lap.

“Careful now,” she laughed, placing a hand on the slight swell of her belly. 

Sandor’s hand dwarfed hers as he placed it on top. Arya put her other hand on his, squeezing reassuringly as she looked up at him. Her grey eyes were still cold like the North but as spring came they had begun softening, warming in time with the new life blossoming around them, and within her.

“You both are all I have, Sandor,” she whispered as she tucked her head under his chin. His thumb absently ran over the old, tattered red cord still around her wrist as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. 

“Always.”

“I think it’ll be a boy,” she murmured. “He’s going to be big like his father, and will probably rape half the girls in Wintertown before he’s fifteen.”

“What?” Sandor leaned back with wide eyes. 

“I mean, most of the whores won’t be around to have little Snow bastards—he’ll kill them before they can utter a word,” Arya continued as though she was talking about grain stocks or whether it might rain. 

“The hell are you talking about, woman? This some kind of joke?” Sandor pushed her from his lap and came to his feet, his vision growing dim. 

“It is, it’s just a terrible one. The gods have a way of being cunts,” she shrugged as she came to her feet, unaffected. “Watch out behind you—”

Everything went red.

Agony washed over him, from his chest to his stomach, his thighs to his hands. A wet, searing heat engulfed him, oozing down in angry streaks. Sandor’s eyes shot open with a choked gasp as he instinctively tried to pull away from the pain, only to realize he was still pinioned. 

Vertigo hit him, making his head spin and throb. The wet heat started again and he let out a roar of pain as he continued to pull on the restraints, digging the metal deep into his skin. Gregor stood a few feet away with a long wand that he flicked at him in wide arcs, spraying him with hot, liquid from the bulb. What that substance was, Sandor couldn’t tell, but it felt like boiling oil. It stung something fierce, more than it should have, and had to be laced with a substance from that weird little man from before.

The wet heat stopped as Gregor went to the other side of the room. Tiny rivers of fire ran down his chest, his arms, his legs, as Sandor finally opened his eyes. Faint squeaking made his ears prick and he did his best to look to the side where Gregor had gone. The giant came back with a bucket where the noise was coming from. 

Little claws pricked his bare skin as the bucket was pressed to his stomach. Gregor’s meaty hands reached around him, pulling a leather strap tight over the raw marks on his back from a lashing only hours ago. Sandor growled as he met his brother’s bulging, red eyes, pausing only for a second before spitting in his face.

With nary a sound, the undead man moved back, drew his hand far, and punched him across the face. Blood gushed immediately and filled his mouth as pain blossomed from his nose. Groaning weakly, Sandor spit the blood to the floor, not looking to get a broken nose. _What does it matter, you’ll be dead soon enough._

Grabbing the torch from the wall, Gregor stoically held it along the bottom of the bucket and slowly the squeaks inside grew more frantic. It wasn’t long before the rats’ started pawing at the soft flesh of his stomach, causing him to wince and hiss with increasing frequency. Slow pain was the worst way to die.

 

* * *

Getting a Queensguard uniform hadn’t been difficult. Finding one that didn’t look ridiculously suspicious had. Arya was thankful for the masking helmet and the broad pauldrons that aided her success in making it to the dungeons.

Under the guise of being sent to retrieve Ser Gregor—the name alone on her tongue made her gag—she had stopped to offer the guards a drink and a game of cards. After a bit of convincing, for they must be miserably bored, they’d agreed to one game and one drink. And that all she needed.

A few drops of essence of nightshade placated the guards and Arya began her prowl. Her eyes darted around the dark hall, the faint groans of anguish buzzed around her head like a mosquito in summer. Wet and dank, the black cells turned out to not be the lowest level of the dungeons. With her heart beating loud in her ears, she searched every room as quickly as she could. She found no signs of Sandor but did come across a suspicious looking stone on the floor. Marks of something that had moved back and forth repeatedly marred its surface faintly.

Arya ran her hands over the stone walls, feeling for any signs of give. Just when she was about to move on, thinking she had made up the hidden door, she felt a stone give under her hand ever so slightly. 

She held her breath as she pushed on it, unsure of what laid on the other side. With a click and a squeak of rusted hinges, the faux-stone door opened to a stairway. Giving a brief look back at the sleeping guards, she descended into the darkness with their keys at her side. The stairwell curved and when she reached the bottom Arya had counted fifty-two stairs, stumbling when she had tried to count the fifty-third. 

Finally, the darkness gave way to a lone torch far down the corridor, outside a wooden cell door. If he was here, this had to be where they’d put him. Arya dreaded what she’d find on the other side of the door.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she opened the cell window. Shackled to the wall and slumped to the ground, Sandor looked like a small, broken boy. Her fingers fumbled over the ring of keys as she tried them, one by one, cursing when they didn’t work. 

The sound of the door unlocking brought a rush of relief, but it would be short lived if she didn’t get him out of here soon. Wherever Gregor had gone, he wouldn’t be gone long. 

Pulling the face off her own, she tossed it aside and ran to where Sandor was. Every part of him was bloodied, beat and in places, burnt. Fingering the keys, she looked for one that would work on the shackles and found a small key amongst the larger ones. Her hand trembled violently as she tried to unlock the heavy iron cuffs, standing tall on the tips of her toes. 

One and then the other, Sandor’s arms fell limply to his side as he slumped back against the wall. Arya knelt in front of him, looking over his cuts, bruises, burns and… claw and bite marks. A chill ran through her as she recalled Harrenhal.

“Oh, Sandor…” Arya felt hot tears sting her eyes as she gently grabbed his bloodied, bruised and swollen face and tilted it towards her. 

“No.. no, stop. Get away! Our sons won’t be like him. No!”

“Sandor, hey,” Arya shook his shoulder desperately. 

“I’ll slice you balls to ears, you rotten cunt!” He barked, lurching forward and almost knocking her back. 

As best she could, she held him as the bulk of his weight leaned against her. Tears fell now, freely and painfully as she tried to swallow the sob that threatened to escape. He smelled of blood and burnt flesh, but he was still breathing, and that was all that mattered right now.

Her small arms snaked around him carefully as she laid her head on his shoulder. She felt the wet stickiness of blood and sweat against her forehead, and the sob came to her at last.

“Sandor, it’s me. Arya. Come on, we’ve got to go,” she pleaded as her lip trembled. 

She cried against his shoulder until, with a sharp inhale and a violent cough, he awoke and jerked back instinctively. Arya pulled back and put her hands on his face, meeting his eyes. They were dull and didn’t seem to recognize her at first. 

“A..Arya?” Her name was barely off his cracked lips when he began coughing once more. Blood ran out the corner of his mouth and he turned to weakly spit it out. Violent coughs overtook him, leaving him wheezing and heaving as he tried to breathe.

“Here.” She held a water skin to his parched lips and helped him drink slowly. 

Water ran down the sides of his face and into his beard but there was a wetness on his cheeks as well that was not blood. With effort, he leaned back against the wall, wincing as he did so. 

“We should have gone back to Winterfell,” Arya apologized, ripping the black fabric of the Queensguard uniform’s face mask about her neck. With gentle motions, she wiped the blood off and finally got a good look at the myriad of bruises and cuts that covered his face.

Weakly, he raised his hand and she was certain he’d try to swat her hand away, but instead he reached forward to touch her face. His thumb ran over her bottom lip hesitantly as though she’d disappear any moment and she felt it tremble once more. 

“How’d you…?”

“That doesn’t matter right now,” Arya whispered as she grasped the hand that was on her cheek. “We need to get out of here. Can you walk?” 

“Don’t know,” he mumbled. 

Slowly she helped him come to his feet, giving her the opportunity to look him over as he leaned against the stone wall. Deep gashes, whip marks, rat scratches and blood covered him. Arya feared what she’d find beneath the blood. The only clothing he still wore was a pair of tattered, dirty britches. Once he was safely away from danger, she’d have to go in search of clothes for him. But they had to get away from here first.

 

* * *

It was arduous and slow, but when Sandor slumped to the ground with a groan, Arya felt she could breathe once more. Tucked into a corner of the dragon cellar, with the faint sound of water dripping somewhere in the dark, they were far from where anyone would go. A small fire crackled on one side of the makeshift camp as she began looking him over. His back was covered in angry lashes, his stomach was seeping and already looked infected from where the rats had dug in, and the burns… 

Arya knelt beside him with a frown as the orange light of the flames danced along her cheek, gently grabbing the hand that had been burnt. “This is bad.”

“No shit,” he grumbled and she smirked, relieved to see his snark still intact.

“I need to check my pack, not sure I have everything to patch you up,” she moved to stand but he grabbed at her sleeve.

“No,” Sandor managed hoarsely. 

“You’ll die from infection if I don’t clean that—”

“It can wait for five bloody minutes.”

Arya cocked a brow at him and he sighed in exasperation. “Spare me your jokes. Don’t go. Not yet. Please,” he pleaded. She tried to ignore the crack in his voice for his sake. 

Stringy hair matted with dried blood clung to his sweat covered face. His eyes were dark sockets, dull and tired, but he didn’t take his gaze from her. Arya swallowed the lump in her throat as she recalled him in this very position some years past. She wouldn’t leave him to die this time.

“You shouldn’t have come for me. If he’d been there—”

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Arya placed a gentle hand on his thigh and leaned forward to press her lips to his. 

Sandor lifted his good hand to her hair, tangling his fingers in its softness and pulled her closer as he tried to ignore the agonizing pain radiating from every fiber of his body. She tasted just as sweet as the apple he’d never actually eaten. For a moment he forgot where he was, his pain or what came next, and instead tried to enjoy the one thing that brought him any modicum of happiness. The pain, however, would not relent and as soon as he’d pushed it aside, it came back, somehow all the worse.

“Stupid, stupid girl,” he hissed through grit teeth as she pulled away. He reached out to cup her cheek again as he shook his head. “I would have never forgiven myself if he’d gotten you.”

“But he didn’t. You’re here, he’s… wherever, and I’m still alive.”

“What of Cersei? You’d been gone for… hell I don’t even know how long I was down there, but you had to be close.”

“Two days,” Arya noted as she stood, turning from him. Her voice went menacingly low. “I’ll get another chance at her, maybe. What happened, happened, but I can’t risk it now—not when they find out you’re gone. We need to get out of here, we need to go North.”

She turned back to him, her shoulders squared in resolve as the fire glowed around her narrow frame. “We need to go home, Sandor.”

 

* * *

On foot, the journey North was miserable. In the company of one of the most recognizable—and likely valuable—faces in Westeros, who was fighting infection, needed bandages changed twice a day and couldn’t hold a sword against bandits, was a downright cruel joke of the gods.

“We should’ve found horses,” he grumbled as he drew the worn grey wool cloak tighter around his hunched shoulders, bracing against the cold winds that blew through his hood. 

“Would have taken too long, and I don’t have enough coin for the prices around the capital. Do you?” Arya eyed his mismatched, stolen clothes. “Quit being a child, we should reach the Crossroads by nightfall,” she softened her words with a ghost of a smirk. 

Curling his lip in dissatisfaction at their situation, Sandor reluctantly turned his attention back to the hunting trail in front of them. Staying off the Kingsroad—or was it Queensroad now?—had slowed them down but had also put fewer eyes on them. After a week of walking, every part of him was stiff and ached, and the limp he’d just started to lose had come back with a vengeance. He needed a hot meal, a mug of ale, a hot bath and a soft bed. He was turning into a bloody woman, with all these needs. 

They went on in silence for the next few hours, lost in their own thoughts with only the sound of dead leaves rustling in the cold winds to keep them company. When finally they approached the building, a thick fog blanketed the darkening lands and in the coolness of a coming winter, no crickets chirped to greet them. Despite knowing it was a piddly little inn filled with noisy inebriates, wandering strumpets, and only the most basic of accommodations, the stone building still looked ominous in the blue light of the moon as they approached.

“Hadn’t expected to be back so soon,” Arya mumbled. “Had I not stopped, I wouldn’t have gone North, wouldn’t have run into you.”

“Bad luck then, this place,” Sandor eyed her, his tone grim. “Two times now I’ve been here with you. Both times something bad has happened. Not sure if it’s you or the crumbling stones.”

“Mycah and the direwolves, you getting ambushed by the Brotherhood—”

“And losing all my money,” Sandor added with a displeased grunt. “Cunts never did pay me back after the war.”

“Which one? Has it ever stopped? From one argument onto the next,” Arya let out a tired sigh as they reached the door. “Here’s hoping nothing bad happens this time.”

Off-pitch notes floated through the air as they entered. Pausing to choose a table, they watched as a poorly dressed bard with a lute slowly moved through, harassing patrons for coin as he sang of the red lion turned green and the sparrows she had killed.

The inn smelled of wood fire, fresh baked bread and the unique odor of travelers gone unwashed. Low flames danced in the torches along the walls and in the hearth at the far end of the room, creating a warm, welcoming atmosphere fit for any worn out traveler. It was comforting and even Sandor was able to relax ever so slightly as he sat gingerly at a table. His relaxation was short lived.

“Arry? You’re back!” A portly young man bustled up to the table with a tray of meat pies and ale not long after they had settled.

“I am,” Arya smiled wearily up at her friend.

“You makin’ to travel to King’s Landing now? Did ya see your brother, the King in the North?” Hot Pie placed the tray down with a dull thud and settled at the table with them, eager to hear her stories.

“No and yes.” She croaked, too exhausted to get into details.

“Then where ya headin’?”

“That for us, boy?” Sandor interrupted as he felt his stomach growl painfully.

Hot Pie blinked his big eyes slowly, registering the man next to Arya. Taking the lack of response as an affirmation, Sandor grabbed the flagon of ale, a mug, and a whole meat pie. Not one for table manners, he began eating noisily, to Arya’s amusement. The cook stared at him for a moment longer before the spark of recognition lit up his plump face.

“You’re… I know _you_.”

“Aye,” Sandor mumbled between a mouthful of food and a gulp of ale. It trickled down his winter-thick whiskers.

“Size of an oak, face like a half-burnt ham. You’re the Hound!” 

“Don’t call him that,” Arya muttered, but it fell on deaf ears.

“The Brotherhood was fixin’ to do you no good. What ‘appened?”

“Still here, aren’t I?” He didn’t look up from the steaming pie that was disappearing with impressive speed. Carrots, bits of potato and some unidentifiable meat spilled onto the worn wooden table as he ate.

“Ain’t looking too good these days,” Hot pie went on, noting his bruises and scabs. “Not that you was too easy on the eyes last I saw ya.” 

Sandor glared at him through dirty hair that hung limply over his face for an uncomfortable second before returning to his meal. Arya cleared her throat and reached for a mug to pour herself a drink. 

“We need a room and hot water, plenty of it. Can you manage that for us?”

Hot Pie ambled to his feet with a smile on his soft face, waving his chubby hand dismissively. “Ah, for you Arry? Anything.” 

Once the boy had left, Sandor cocked his good brow at Arya as she gulped down the rest of her ale and eyed the half-finished pie in front of him. 

“What? At least the food’ll be free. Speaking of which,” she leaned over him, “were you ever taught to share?” 

 

* * *

A low fire crackled in the small hearth, keeping a black iron pot of water hot and ready for use. Beside it sat a large, steaming basin, already running a muddy pink from the grime they’d collected and the sores that had opened back up all over Sandor’s body. On the other side of the room was a small bed, big enough for the both of them, but only just. Arya sat behind him, gently moving her fingers over the expanse of his back. They were quiet, in a mediative trance as she worked like she had twice a day for the last week.

“It’s been more than a week and we haven’t talked about what happened.”

“Not much to talk about,” Sandor said flatly, his shoulders tensing under her small fingers.

Arya’s faced screwed up in frustration as she applied the salve to the gashes on his back. “You were locked in a cell and tortured. No food, no water, only pain for two days. You’re only now getting your strength back. What about the fire? The burns? The fact that it was your brother?”

Sandor pulled away from her touch like a beat dog, grabbing the ointment from her hands. “It doesn’t matter, it’s over,” he snapped. “Let me be, I’ll take it from here. Go wash up, you smell like a sewer rat.”

This wasn’t Sandor. This was the Hound: angry and lashing out at whomever he could to ignore the pain he felt, both physical and emotional. She watched his broad, scarred shoulders hunch over as though he were trying to take up as little space as possible. Just like he’d looked the day he told her of the first burns Gregor had given him; the day she’d started to see him as something other than the Hound. He picked at the edge of his bandaged hand, balancing the jar of salve on his leg, but didn’t seem intent on doing anything until she left him be. Arya wasn’t going to do that.

Kneeling on the floor in front of him, she met his dull, sad eyes as she gently took the jar from him and began to undo the linen around his hand. She worked in silence, assessing the scarring, applying more ointment, and gingerly rewrapping the bandages.

Arya was about to stand, to go wash up like he’d insisted but she paused and turned an uncertain glance up at him. Her thick brows twisted in concern.

“When I came to you, you were mumbling about…” She hesitated, unsure if she’d heard him correctly. “…‘our sons’ not ending up like him. What did you mean?”

The dreams—nightmares—were still fresh in his mind, as though it had happened just moments prior. What she had said still haunted him, but it was delusion, a mind mad with pain and fear. It had nothing to do with what lie ahead, or what might be after. No. It didn’t. It couldn’t, he convinced himself.

Sandor scoffed. “I was gone in the head, girl. Don’t be one of those women who flips every word into something its not.”

“Have I ever manipulated you?”

“You breathe,” he said dryly.

Arya sighed and came to her feet. “I just…” She wrung her hands together, messing with the red string around her wrist before holding it out towards him. “Part of _this_ , is you realizing you aren’t alone in this, in anything, anymore. Quit being such a stubborn ass about it, I’m on your side.

Sandor held up his wrist, free of anything other than fresh scars, and raised an annoyed brow at her. “What now?”

“It’s symbolism, you big dolt. Doesn’t change its meaning. We’ll find another one.” Arya moved closer, pushing her way between his legs, her voice going low as her hands moved up his legs slowly. “Only if you want.”

“I do,” he mumbled, running his good hand along her side. “Lot of things I want, but right now, you smell worse than Flea Bottom shit on a hot summer day, and I’ve some horses to bargain for downstairs.”

A warm smile cracked on the corners of her lips as she tipped his chin up and pressed a deep kiss to his mouth. _You’re not alone._

 

* * *

Sleeping in a feather bed had been a luxury neither expected to enjoy until they were back within the cold stone walls of Winterfell. Waking up beside her, with the weak winter sun kissing the mess of tawny hair that framed her freckled cheeks made Sandor want to stay in bed all day, perhaps longer. 

Alas, they had ground to cover, and a lot of it. 

With horses acquired and saddled, and most of their coin gone, he was growing impatient with the extended goodbye Arya insisted on. They stood in front of the Inn, the horses pawing restlessly at the hard ground.

“It was good to see you again, Hot Pie. Take care of yourself, will you?”

“I’ll do a lot better than you lot up at Winterhell,” he smiled jovially. 

“Winter _fell,_ ” Arya shook her head, palming the bundle of warm bread. “Thank you for this.”

“Ah, it was nothing, Arry.” If the boy’s cheeks weren’t already ruddy, Sandor would have sworn he saw the plump cook blush. He snorted.

“Are you two about done yet? By the time you finish, it’ll be nightfall,” Sandor mounted a strong rounsey mare with a brown coat and a blonde tail and mane. He held the reins of a grey mare, a smaller, weaker stot, with a patch of white on its left hindquarter.

Arya rolled her eyes and turned back to Hot Pie, who had started rubbing his arms. “You’d better hope winter is mild down here, if you think this is cold.”

The horses nickered and paced. Sandor held the reins as best he could, furrowing his brow as he pulled on them roughly. As Arya went to say her final goodbye, she noticed her breath clouding thickly in front of her. It hadn’t been doing that a moment ago. Confused, she looked around, and met Sandor’s eyes as a distant screech bellowed from the quickly darkening sky above. 

“Now. Let’s go,” Sandor held out his hand to Arya. “Boy, you’d better hop on that horse and ride, far. If that’s what I think it is—”

“It can’t be… could it?” Arya looked to the sky in disbelief. It didn’t sound like Drogon or Rhaegal; it was higher pitched, like a crack of thunder.

“Wasn’t planning to stick around and find out. Now come _on_.” He urged her, his brown eyes just as wild as the horses’.

Arya took his hand and swung up behind him onto the horse’s rear in a fluid motion. Her small fingers gripped the saddle tightly as the mare paced in circles as Sandor pulled on the reins to keep her in place. 

“Hot Pie, come on!”

The loud screech sounded again, and with it came a thunderous explosion that turned the sky blue just through the trees. The horses brayed in fear, pacing and pawing and moving towards the woods. 

“Boy! _Now_!” Sandor barked, letting the stot’s reins go and kicking his own horse into the woods, not waiting to see if the cook followed. A winged shadow enveloped the Crossroads Inn and let out another ear-shattering shriek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! You made it to the end of the chapter! Awesome! You know, writers, whether fanfic or original, put a lot of effort and time into their works, bringing you joy and an escape. Consider taking the time to write a comment showing your appreciation as we slog through 2018 without GoT together. <3


	6. Some Dreams are Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With loss, comes comfort. With comfort, comes fear.

* * *

 

* * *

 

“ _H_ _yah_! Come on, girl!” Sandor urged the horse faster with a whip of the reins, cursing as some of his deeper wounds broke open again. 

Arya clutched his waist tightly as they flew through the trees, ducking low branches and bursting through dense bracken with as much speed as he could get out of the mare. Dread choked her as she thought about Hot Pie. She hazarded a look back towards the Inn only to see the glow of blue flames, but no sign of her friend following.

“Was that Daenerys’ dragon?” she called into the wind, trying to peer over his shoulder. She wasn’t sure he heard her as he maneuvered the horse through the forest with surprising ease. 

“Had to have been,” Sandor finally responded, after they’d gotten through the thick brush. 

As they slowed at last, nearing a small stream, they both realized just how hard their hearts had been pounding. Tugging the mare to a halt, Sandor let out a pained growl as he reached one hand under his shirts and pulled it out, the tips of his thick fingers red from opened wounds. 

“Seven hells,” he let out a frustrated sigh. 

“The linens and salves were in the other saddle bags,” Arya’s face twisted into a remorseful grimace as she hopped off the back of the horse. 

“Just perfect.”

“Perhaps Hot Pie will show up, maybe he’s just a ways off—he never was good at riding, he told me once.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Sandor shot her a sour look as he tied the reins to a tree, patting the horse on its hindquarters.

He looked around, assessing the clearing they’d stopped in. Twisted, dead limbs from overgrown bushes reached out like fingers from the shadows of the dense forest towards a fresh water stream that tinkled clear, cold water down the slight hill. The ground was bare, hard-packed dirt with nary a blade of grass about, only a dusting of snow. No birds sang in the trees. In fact, it was uncomfortable just how quiet it was. 

“We’ll wait for a bit to see if your fat friend shows up, if only for the supplies,” he said once he’d pulled off the cloak. His hands went for a sword belt that wasn’t there. “Come help me with these.”

“And do what? Put some salt pork on it? Rub some bread crumbs in it?” Arya tossed the rock she’d been fumbling with into the water and ripped off a piece of her increasingly ratty-looking cloak, soaking it in the clear stream water before going to his side. “Take off your outer layers, I can at least clean them.”

With an aggrieved sigh, he untied and slid the worn, brown leather jerkin off his broad shoulders, letting it fall haphazardly to the ground. A thick, quilted, tan under coat was next, and once he was only in his tunic, the chill even at this time of day made him shiver. Grunting, he pulled the shirt up to his chest.

In silence she worked, wiping the wounds clean and patting them dry with another piece of torn fabric. With the wounds on his back and stomach looked at, they sat along the stream’s edge where she could gently look at his burnt hand. The reins had done its healing no favors.

Even though the trip thus far had been tiring, painful and cold, Sandor found himself yearning for more of the same. Something about it felt right and familiar. The freedom to go about life as they wanted was an alluring prospect, but he knew that unlike himself, Arya had more to live for than just the person sitting beside her. He caught a glimpse of the string around her wrist and frowned at his own naked wrist. It was a silly token of hope, something he would have considered trite only six months prior. Now, he stupidly felt like he was betraying her having lost his. 

“Sandor…” Her voice was a quiet whisper of trepidation, pulling him from his thoughts, as she cleaned the puss and blood away.

“That thing is heading south. To King’s Landing.” Arya chewed on her lip, her eyes downcast as she held his hand in her lap, now finished her work. Her small thumb ran absently along the side of his palm, unconsciously reminding him of her presence.

“Aye.”

She turned to him so suddenly that he started. Her grey eyes were big and pleading, with a look he couldn’t quite read. “Do you know how… _more_ … are made? Can he just raise the dead? It—it can’t be that simple. He’ll triple his army if he kills everyone in the capital.”

“Aye.”

Exasperated and rightly fearful, Arya tossed his hand back into his own lap. “Is that all you have to say?”

His low brow furrowed as he looked her over. “You know it’s not going to be alright and I know you don’t want any pretty words of valiant knights killing the undead beast. What’s there to say?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed in resignation, turning back to the stream and tossing a pebble in frustration. “The Kingsroad won’t be safe. Who knows how many people he’s killed. Seven hells, he could have already destroyed Winterfell.”

“He hasn’t destroyed Winterfell,” Sandor said, trying to convince himself as much as her as he placed a large hand on her narrow thigh, rubbing it with his thumb. “But you’re not wrong. Ship’s safer. Selling the horses should get us a hammock in steerage. Water’s got to lead to the lower river of the Trident. Salt Pans might be a day and a half ride.”

“We were supposed to do that together years ago,” she said quietly, looking over at him through messy brown hair. “Then you almost got yourself killed trying to protect me.”

“This time around, I’ll do both,” he grinned darkly beneath thick whiskers as he pulled her closer and wrapped his cloak around her shoulders.

They sat there for some time, leaning on each other for equal support despite their size difference. The faintest babble of the stream and the occasional rustle of dead leaves that clung desperately to the trees behind them was the only conversation to be had. 

Arya had just closed her eyes and relaxed into his hold when distant braying caught her attention. It was far off still, perhaps a mile, but the horse was clearly agitated as it made its way towards them. Sandor hadn’t heard it yet.

Arya escaped the large arm around her shoulders and made her way towards the forest edge. Sandor came to his feet slowly, raising a suspicious brow in the direction she looked.

They waited in tense silence as the sound of hooves grew closer, louder. Her hand twitched on the hilt of her rapier. The moments felt like an eternity before suddenly, crashing through the dead brush, was a wild-eyed grey horse and one very plump young man with a bevy of cuts on his face. 

Sandor came in front of the horse, quickly bringing it to a halt. 

“You made it!” Arya exclaimed in relief.

“Gods… only just,” Hot Pie stammered as he clumsily dismounted. “Hate horses.” 

“You’d hate burning more,” Sandor said apathetically as he ran his large hand over the horse’s neck and chest, trying to calm her down. 

“And I would’ve if you’d not let that horse go. I owe you, ser,” Hot Pie’s big brown eyes were sincere on his red face.

“Not a ser,” he grumbled as he tied the horse up. 

They settled for a time, enough for Hot Pie to catch his breath and for Arya to properly tend to the wounds on both of the men now that supplies had arrived. It was late morning when Sandor grew restless, pacing the non-existent shoreline of the small stream, kicking stones into its clear waters every now and again. 

“We need to move.”

“I really ought to head back, check on the Inn,” Hot Pie said.

Sandor turned on the boy, his brown eyes wide in disbelief. “You’re a damned fool to want to go back there. Nothing but death and fire for you there, boy.”

“They’re like my family, I can’t just leave ‘em.”

“You’d best start walking then,” Sandor nodded towards the thick forest with a huff. 

“How many people do you wager were there, Hot Pie?” Arya interjected. 

“Dozen, might be.”

She turned towards Sandor who stood with his large arms crossed over his chest and a sour look upon his scarred face. Chewing on her lip in contemplation, she looked at Hot Pie, then the horses, then the forest, and back to Sandor. 

“Arya…” His tone was one of warning but also worry. Going back could mean trouble, when all they had to do was follow the river and go home.

“We have to help, if there are survivors.”

“What for? We paid them their coin, we owe them nothing,” he snapped, though his frustration was mostly out of concern for her safety.

“Because not everyone can defend themselves,” Arya’s voice was low as she approached, stopping just in front of him and looking up with that stubborn look he both hated and adored. “I’m going with Hot Pie, to check. It won’t hurt. In and out, then we’ll be on our way.”

“I don’t like this one bit.”

“But you _know_ its the right thing to do.” 

With her back to her friend, Arya grasped Sandor’s good hand in hers, squeezing it to urge him to make the right choice. Her cold eyes had softened, still waiting for his help. He grunted and it was enough of a reaction that Arya nodded for Hot Pie to get back on the grey mare.

 

* * *

From her place behind him, Arya could feel Sandor tense as they drew closer to the fading blue flames that licked the cold ground. Shrapnel from the inn’s storehouse and stables was spread about the grounds. She slid from the back of the horse with ease and grabbed the reins of the grey mare so Hot Pie could get down. 

With the horses tied up in the trees, far enough away from the destruction, they cautiously made their way towards the smoldering buildings. There were no groans of pain or cries for help amidst the rubble, only the evil crackle of the unnaturally colored fire. 

Getting inside the inn wasn’t hard, most of it was stone, and fire—even blue—would not melt it. The roof had caved onto the floor above where the rooms were, and it had crashed down onto the smoldering tables of the main hall. The rubble and broken beds were painted in red, from the blood of the inn’s previous patrons. Arya made a face.

“No one’s here,” she noted as she stopped in the middle of the room, her hand firmly grasping the ornate dagger.

“They’ve got to be around here somewhere,” the craven boy urged from behind the two warriors.

“No, I mean,” she stopped and turned to Sandor, her eyes narrowing. “There are no bodies. Where are the dead bodies—the people, the horses? They couldn’t have all escaped.”

Sandor clutched the dragonglass dagger she’d given him awkwardly in his left hand as a chill ran through him, the realization of what happened hitting him. 

“We need to get out of here. Now.”

But it was too late. Even though they had been quiet in their search, it hadn’t been enough. Sandor turned to stare into the blue eyes of a stout older woman in the doorway, whose face was half burnt off. Perhaps under different circumstances Sandor would have taken a moment to curse the gods at the cruel slight _._

“M-miss Margy?” Hot Pie’s voice croaked. 

“Not anymore.”

Within moments they were ambushed, as at least ten dead men and women poured through the doorway, mouths snapping and eyes wild. The cook had stumbled towards the kitchen door, almost tripping over fallen beams as he tried to stay out of the way as Arya and Sandor attempted to make quick work of the dead. 

A boy, no more than seven, scrambled past a man Arya swiftly felled. He looked like the Bran she remembered from her childhood, with shaggy dark hair and a long face. She would later be haunted by the image of seemingly killing her own brother.

They moved towards the doorway, heading off the dead as they entered, taking turns in picking them off, one by one. Their numbers were closer to double what they expected. Arya’s nimble foot work made up for her short arms, and Sandor’s strength made up for his clumsy, left-handed efforts. The dead fell quickly and just when they thought they were done, Hot Pie yelled out from behind them. 

Arya turned towards her friend’s cries to see an older man clamoring through the collapsed doorway of the kitchen, its dead hands firmly around the boy’s meaty arm as it pulled him closer. Hot Pie tugged with all his strength, but it only held on tighter, slicing deep into his arm.

Time seemed to move slow then, as she rushed to help. It felt like her legs were deep in the muck of a swamp and she couldn’t move fast enough, like in a dream. Her eyes locked with his and she watched as they widened in fear and agony as the dead man bit deep into his neck. Red blood sprayed from his throat, hitting Arya in the face as she reached them. This was no dream.

The Valyrian steel dagger buried into the creature’s face, dropping him immediately. But it was too late. Hot Pie slid to the floor, aided by her skinny arms as he gasped for breath through the thick, dark blood that gurgled from his neck. 

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” she soothed, swallowing the lump in her throat as she watched his panicked face.

His eyes darted around the room, from the grey sky to the burning rafters, to Sandor’s solemn face towering over them, and then to Arya. 

“Arry…” 

“Don’t—it’s okay.”

“You’re a survivor,” he managed as he clutched her arm. His face twisted in pain as his eyes went distant. 

Arya choked back a sob, feeling her heart clench despondently. The wound was too big, too bad. There was nothing she could do except offer strength in his final moments. 

His brown eyes met hers and after an agonizing moment, the plump boy from Flea Bottom, who made the best brown bread in all of Westeros, took his last breath. 

 

* * *

From the Crossroads to the Salt Pans, Arya spoke naught a word, choosing to ride solemnly and rigidly forward. Riding side by side, Sandor looked over at her from time to time, frustrated that he couldn’t do a thing for her anguish. Had they both just listened to him, that stupid boy would have still been alive, talking his ear off about the proper way to make a pie as they made their way to the harbor. 

But that wasn’t how things worked out. It was just another death on the tally of deaths yet to come. One or both of them could be added before the Long Night ended. Sandor only hoped if it had to be one of them, it was him. The thought of what came after if she wasn’t at his side was uncomfortable both because he couldn’t bare to watch her die, and admitting he needed her was unfamiliar and terrifying.

When they arrived at the Salt Pans, it was quiet, not the bustling little port it had been when Arya had come only a few years prior. There were no ships, only a couple of old, sea-weathered men sitting in front of a run-down shack along the shore. If they wanted to get to White Harbor, they’d have to keep going, to Wickenden, another two days ride. 

For those two nights, after Arya had made a small fire and tended to his healing wounds, he would pull her close amongst the gathered furs and blankets, soothing her as her narrow shoulders shuddered in sorrow. Sandor recalled the days after the Red Wedding, when she’d been the same: quiet and sullen during the day, crying in her sleep at night. It wasn’t as bad as it had been then, for she was mourning a friend and not her family, but she needed him all the same. He had no words to offer that would make it better, but he hoped this time his embrace brought her some bit of strength. 

It must have, for when they arrived in Wickenden she made quick work of securing passage on a cargo ship carrying purchased grain from the Riverlands to White Harbor. They slept in a sea-side inn that night, filling their bellies full of fish stew and wheat ale. With a small but comfortable room, they laid together for the first time since Dragonstone and both woke with a slightly better outlook on life. 

Other than a bout of sea-sickness on his part, which Sandor expected, the trip to White Harbor had been uneventful and uncomfortable. When the ship docked, they made their way through the bustling, cold town, finding a delivery caravan heading to Winterfell and hitched a ride.

 

* * *

As they crested the snowy hill overlooking the large castle in the distance, they took in the changed scene. No longer were the hills pristine and white, but instead covered in a variety of tents and huts, with dirty, stomped down snow. The structures lined both sides of the narrow road that led to the gate of the castle, giving them a glimpse of what was at stake. 

“You’re home,” Sandor said quietly, glancing over at Arya.

The corner of her lip twitched as she stared at the grey stones. “ _We’re_ home,” she corrected, turning her measured glance to him. 

The horses’ hooves squelched in the muddy ruts and the wooden wheels creaked along the narrow road that led through the makeshift shelters towards the main gate. They passed through the equally muddy streets of Wintertown, which was even busier than it had been the last time they’d ridden through together. Even with the cold winds of winter, patrons mingled outside the overcrowded tavern—Wildlings and Northerners mostly, with a few Dothraki and Unsullied men skirting the edges cautiously.

None of it felt real, even when Arya’s feet hit the hard ground of the main courtyard. Not the warm smiles of recognition, nor the faint rustle of grey and white banners on the high stone walls. 

Sansa and Jon stood on the steps of the Great Hall, tired smiles upon their faces. Behind them, Bran had been pushed out by Maester Wolkan, and Daenerys stood beside him. Arya felt Sandor nudge her towards her siblings and she made what felt like mechanical steps in their direction. It was surreal when her sister’s arms gathered her close, her comforting warmth and vanilla smell enveloping her.

“Bran told us what happened,” Sansa said as she pulled back, holding her at arms’ length. She turned a remorseful eye towards Sandor. “I’m so sorry.”

“We’re alive, that’s what matters,” Arya said quickly, as she noticed Sandor’s discomfort. She felt it too. Knowing Bran had the ability to see anything he wanted was powerful, and frightening. 

“Aye, it is,” Jon agreed, moving forward to squeeze her tight. “Thank you for getting her home safe, Clegane. You have my gratitude.”

“Might say it was the other way,” Sandor shrugged, trying to make light of the last few weeks.

“You both must be exhausted, hungry, and ready to get out of those tattered, _dirty_ rags,” Sansa noted. “I’ll see to it that baths are drawn and fresh linens provided for the both of you. Hot meals as well.”

 

* * *

Almost as soon as he’d slid into the wooden tub situated near the hearth of his room, the steaming water had done wonders to loosen his tight, tired muscles. It wasn’t the same room as before, it was higher up this time, closer to the Stark’s quarters, he had noted. The closer to Arya he could be, the better he’d feel. 

A soft knock caught him by surprise, interrupting his attempted post-scrub relaxation. Assuming it was a servant bringing food, or more hot water, or who knows what else Sansa would dote them with, perhaps a flagon of sour read, Sandor called them in, not bothering to open his eyes. 

The scrape of the bolt got his attention though, and he turned around to see Arya standing there, watching him with a hungry but sheepish look. She chewed on her lip as she approached. 

“You’re still dirty,” he noted in the dim candlelight. 

“I can’t reach my back.” Her grey eyes didn’t leave his as she approached, shedding and tossing her clothing to the floor as she got closer. 

“And you think I’ll do it for you?” Sandor’s brow twitched in interest as she came to stand at the side of the tub in only her tunic. It brushed enticingly at the top of her thighs. 

“I did care for your wounds, front and back, for the last two weeks…” 

Arya picked at the side of the wooden tub, watching him with a coy grin. Sandor raked his eyes over her lithe form and reached out to slide a hand under her top, tracing down the slight curve of her back and stopping to cup her arse. 

“Aye, you did.”

With the slightest tip of his head in invitation, she pulled the tunic over her head, stepped over the edge and settled between his legs, with her back to him. It was his turn to quietly go about his work, running the bar of soap over her shoulders and taking the soft cloth to her skin. He cupped his hand in the water and drew it upwards, letting it go along her shoulder and watching as the suds ran down. Rough, but water-softened fingers ran along the scars that decorated her shoulder blades, memorizing each.

“Where’d you get this?” 

“Hmm?” Arya turned her head languidly, clearly relaxed by his ministrations. “Braavos. Or maybe Harrenhal?”

Sandor stiffened. “It wasn’t my brother, was it?”

“No.” She shook her head gently, her voice soft and distant. “Never laid a hand on me; Tywin Lannister found me out before he could. Thought I was some low-born girl mixed up in a bad situation.”

Even if it hadn’t been his brother, the thought of Gregor hurting her gave him an ache in his chest similar to the one he felt when he thought of the army of the dead that marched ever closer. As though she sensed his mind going to dark places, Arya ran her hand along his leg beneath the water, gliding over the dense, dark hair in an effort to assure him all was well.

“This tub’ll do for now, but there’s something better I’ll show you sometime,” she said quietly, changing the topic. 

Sandor ran his hand up her back, feeling the bump of each vertebrae as he went. His hand dwarfed her slender neck as he grasped it gently and pulled her back, leaning forward to press a kiss to her nape. Arya placed her small hand atop his and he could feel the hum of contentment in her throat as he buried his face against her shoulder. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, kissing his way up towards her ear.

The looming dread of what was to come tugged in his belly uncomfortably. It could be tomorrow, it could be in a week, a month—hell it could be about to happen. And if that were so, he wanted to enjoy Winterfell—and really, her—as much as he could, while he could. His large, muscular arms wrapped tightly around her narrow frame, holding her close for a moment.

“You’re clean enough,” he grunted against her ear, hot and low. He let her go and pushed to the back of the tub. “Bed.” 

Arya turned to look at him with a wolfish smirk and dark eyes. It didn’t take long until they were both beneath the furs of the bed, trailing hungry lips and hands across clean skin.

It had felt like a dream, being in this warm, soft bed, in the relative safety of Winterfell’s stone walls, all wrapped up in her. A dream threatening to turn to a nightmare at any moment as the events of the last month began darkening his thoughts. As her back arched against him, he tried to push away thoughts of the sharp pain of the whip along his skin. When he held her arms above her head, pinning them there with one hand as he claimed her sighing mouth, it was hard to not see his own hands in shackles. 

Ignoring what had happened in King’s Landing had been easy when they were on the move, unsure of what the next moment would bring them. It was as though the comfort of—dare he think it?—home was a treat dangling in front of him, about to be ripped away as though he were not worthy of anything good. Until the dead were taken care of and Cersei was pulled from the throne, Sandor couldn’t sit idly by. If he wanted the treat, so to speak, he would have to work for it. And working for it meant doing everything in his power to ensure Arya’s safety, so that the possibility of a home together might be a reality. 

Sandor buried his face in her tangled hair when they were finished, not ready to leave the cocoon of acceptance, appreciation and affection she stupidly offered him. She’d realize one day he wasn’t worthy of what she offered; he was meant to be lashed and burnt. His father had taught him that long ago. 

It wasn’t until Arya ran a gentle hand along his wet, scarred cheek, that he realized he had been crying. 


	7. The Things We Do for Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya adjusts once more to life back in Winterfell with mixed results.

* * *

 

* * *

 

The Glass Garden had been one of her lady mother's favorite places. Despite the cold, oppressive nature of the rest of the castle, the gardens were a soft, welcoming oasis. While the sides were hard, grey stone just like the rest of the castle, the iron and glass gable softly curved to a point and let in as much light as the bleak skies offered. Windows sparsely lined the long walls, and a natural spring tinkled beneath them, running water into a channel that fed through the rest of the massive building.

In the entrance, a seven pointed star was etched into the stone floor, with a bubbling spring at the center. Benches curved around the outer edge, one at each of the points, with roses of red, yellow and blue blossoming on plump bushes behind them. Ferns rustled as they danced above the water and birds whistled and chirped somewhere high in the rafters. 

Through the wooden doors was the garden, where tomatoes, carrots, parsnips, aubergines, potatoes and spinach grew in endless supply. Walking through the rows of plants, the aromas of mint, parsley, tansy, mallow, sage and coriander were ever-present. Several trees, some apple, some lemon, reached for the non-existent sun. It was surreal to be in the presence of so much life when just outside the walls death awaited. 

In the week since they’d arrived back in Winterfell, and the weather growing increasingly colder, Arya found herself retreating to the humid sanctuary when she needed a moment to think. She paused by one of the windows and looked out at the serene Godswood in contemplation, watching the warblers hop along the top of the icy snow, picking at the stale bread she had been thrown out for them.

With the chaos of war-planning all around her, she was thankful for a place of respite. Forces were still thin; a third of the Dothraki had been wiped out by the Night King as he flew south, possible help from Dorne or High Garden was laid to rest thanks to Euron Greyjoy and the Lannisters, and the remaining Greyjoy forces, led by Theon of all people, had gone in search of his uncle and captive sister. 

The snows were hindering the movement of the men outside the castle. A rash of sickness had spread through the tents, robbing them of medical supplies that would be needed in the days to come. Horse lords and eunuch soldiers from Essos had never seen snow before, let alone the quantities that blanketed the North. Wool and leather supplies were low, food rations had started, and even with the amount of dragonglass that was brought back from Dragonstone, it still wasn’t enough for the army they had. 

And then there was the matter of her brother—no, her _cousin_. She pressed her fingers to her forehead, rubbing her brow. If Arya hadn’t known of Bran’s abilities, she would have thought he was playing a joke on them when they had joined him and Sam in the Great Hall. Jon would always be her brother, there was no doubt to that, but it presented some poorly timed challenges.

It had made for an awkward week, as Jon considered the benefits and disadvantages of discussing his new-found lineage with the dragon queen. Sandor, when told later in the privacy of Arya’s chambers, had suggested he just tell the Targaryen girl, but went on to make a tasteless joke about the history of incestuous coupling in the family that devolved, somehow, into the two of them partaking in their own passionate coupling. 

With a smirk gracing her pink lips, Arya plucked a few blue roses, and a yellow one for herself, and made her way out the heavy wooden doors, intent on visiting the crypts after a stop by the forge.

 

* * *

Arya stared at the place on the floor where Baelish’s blood had once pooled, the buzz of conversation happening in front of her. At the head table, before the massive stone hearth, a map of Westeros laid out with carved markers for the various forces. They weren’t as intricate as those at Dragonstone, in fact they looked like Hodor may have carved them, she noted with a smile. Jon’s voice thundered, bringing her back to the matters at hand.

“I won’t hear of any more bickering between the Northern soldiers and the Dothraki. You’re grown men, you can handle it yourselves. See to it, Lord Hornwood.”

The braziers in the center of the room crackled in the strained silence as Jon rubbed his temple. Beside him Daenerys sat quiet and dignified on one side, and Sansa, just as queenly, on the other. Tyrion Lannister and Davos Seaworth flanked them. Tensions were high in the room, a palpable energy that begged to be ignited, to set fire to the whole of the castle and destroy everything they had been working towards.

“Status update on weapon-making?” Sansa sat forward, sensing his frustration. In his absence, Sansa had kept the North in fine working order with all that needed to be done. Arya found herself admiring her sister’s stature since Littlefinger’s death. 

“We’re almost out of dragonglass, my lady,” the old smith spoke up, his dark eyes darting around the room before shaking his bald, soot-covered head with a frown.“It won’t be enough for every man, woman and child to wield.”

“Give the dragonglass to the women and children first,” Jon spoke up. “Men will take front lines to cut the damned things down, they can come in and finish them off. How are we on pitch for the trenches?” 

“We have about seven hundred and fifty barrels stored just outside the North Gate, my lord.” 

“Double it and leave half inside the walls. Best to have more than not enough.” Jon tapped his fingers on the table. 

“Where are we going to get it from?” Sansa turned to him with a pursed lips and fiery eyes. “Every house in the North has sent what they have.”

Jon looked around the room as he thought, eager eyes and ears awaiting his command. Despite pledging fealty to Daenerys Targaryen, Jon still acted as the commander and mediary between the two factions. It was for the best, regardless, as the Northern lords still did not trust the Targaryen woman, her armies, and especially not her dragons.

“We’ll have to go south then,” he sighed after a time. “Word in the Riverlands is, now that the Frey’s are gone, the Brotherhood has taken up residence at the Twins.”

Arya’s ears perked up and she glanced over at Sandor who stood like a silent sentry beside her, his meaty arms crossed over his chest. His frown deepened beneath his greying whiskers.

“They are a rebel group,” Lord Glover scoffed as he hastily came to his feet. “They will not offer their men or goods to our cause—what reason do they have?”

“The reason is living, Lord Glover. If they want to stay living, we need their men, and their supplies,” Jon watched Robett Glover carefully, until the stout man finally nodded and resumed his seat. 

“We’ve tried contacting them by raven to no avail. They are either ignoring our messages, or aren’t getting them. As such, I need a small garrison of men to trek south and convince them to come to our aide.” 

“Convincing the Brotherhood to join in arms with a misfit army of Northern houses, Dothraki and Unsullied isn’t going to go over well,” Davos muttered under his breath. 

“Clegane,” Jon turned to him and Arya saw him tense. “You traveled with the Brotherhood, yes?”

“Aye.”

“What do you make of it?”

Sandor sighed, as though speaking of the Brotherhood was the last thing he wanted to do. “Last I heard, some three-four moons ago, that cunt archer—” 

“Anguy,” Arya interrupted. Sandor fixed his gaze on her for a moment, his good brow twitching, before turning back to Jon.

“ _Anguy_ had ranged south to gather men when we were heading to Winterfell. Unless something’s changed, he’d be leading them.”

“Can he be reasoned with?”

“Would you place your money on a sharp sword or a puny arrow? He can be convinced,” Sandor said surely.

“That settles it then. Along with a handful of men from the Stark forces, you’ll head south to gather them.”

“What?” Arya stepped forward, balking. “Why not _fly_ down there? It’ll be quicker, _safer_ than traveling the Kingsroad with the Night King bolstering his forces.” 

She knew Sandor would never get on the back of a dragon again, but there had to be another way. After everything they had gone through, having him leave again would be too much. It was as though the gods were intent on pulling them apart at every opportunity.

“Arya, we need the dragons here, in case the Army of the Dead attack. Besides, I imagine the Brotherhood would not take too kindly to such a show of force. Swords and big men will do, along with Clegane’s history with this man Anguy. They have no reason to trust us otherwise.”

“The Night King has been through the Riverlands—word has to have reached the Twins. They know what’s at stake,” Arya took a breath, trying to stay calm. Her nails dug painfully into her palms.

“That doesn’t mean they want to come to the aide of the North. How do you think it’ll go over when a dragon is sent to negotiate after another, that turns men to _walking_ _corpses,_ has just ravaged the area? The decision is final,” Jon came to his feet, turning his glance up to Sandor who she stood in front of. “You’ll head out within two days time.”

Arya turned to him, searching his face for something, anything that said he didn’t want to go. But he didn’t look down at her, only nodded curtly at Jon. How could he leave just like that again? It was only a few steps until she was standing beside him again, slack jawed in disbelief, but it felt like an ocean was between them once more. 

The rest of the council went on, but she didn’t hear another word. 

 

* * *

She found Jon in the crypts, like she often did these days, standing in front of her aunt, his mother. So many years of asking his surrogate father who his mother was, wondering aloud with Arya as he watched over her while she tried to catch frogs in the creek that ran through the Wolfswood, and she had been here, all along. 

Dried blue roses lay at the feet of the stone statue that Jon stood in front of now, his face illuminated by the candle that sat in its hands. Arya came to stand beside him, their cloaks rustling together as she looked over at him.

“I know you’re mad at me,” he said quietly, not looking away from the visage of his mother. 

“Do you?” 

“He means a lot to you. I still can’t understand it, but I get it.”

“What would you know?”

“Plenty.”

“ _Plenty_?” Arya turned to him, her eyes narrowing.

Jon was his silent, brooding self for a time as he mulled over his thoughts, his stoic expression giving way to a sad smile as he turned to his sister. His cousin.

“I told you of Ygritte, yes?”

“Briefly, on our way to Dragonstone.”

“We couldn’t have been more different, and yet somehow, we were meant to come together,” he shook his head with a distant look in his dark eyes. “I loved her, I truly did. She was the first woman I ever loved and to be honest, I’m not sure I’ll love another like that again.”

“You seemed pretty taken with the dragon queen.”

“Aye, then I found out Daenerys was my aunt,” Jon said dryly. “Point is, there were responsibilities I thrust upon myself at Castle Black for the greater good that pulled us apart. She died in my arms, at the hands of one of my brothers—a boy of thirteen—one who later shoved a blade into my heart. What I mean to say is, sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to, for those we love. To protect them, to serve the greater good. Hell, we even have to protect those we don’t love but know don’t deserve the future that’s coming for them. That got me killed, by my own men.” 

His hand went to his chest as he made a face. The Jon Snow that stood in front of Arya today was not the young man she’d remembered as her brother: a stubborn bastard who was always treated like a dog, who found comfort in the presence of a half-sister who was also an outcast. 

His name technically might be Aegon Targaryen but Arya would never call him that. Yet he was half-Targaryen all the same. This man had been killed, fully, properly, completely, only to be resurrected like Beric Dondarrion. She remembered Beric once saying that each time he lost a bit more of himself, and she wondered just how much Jon had lost.

“Does it ever get easier?” Her voice was low as she walked over to where father stood watch, relighting his candle. The glow cast ghastly shadows on his hollow stone eyes, flickering and making it seem as though he were watching her. 

“Sacrificing yourself for the greater good?”

“No, loss. Doing what’s best but it not working out.”

“He survived the blasted trip north of the Wall, I think he can handle a few scrawny rebel soldiers in the Riverlands.”

Arya knew he could, he would; that wasn’t what made her gut twist as though she were about to vomit. It was what could happen between now and his return, just like what had happened when they parted in Kings Landing. She knew it was selfish to think like that; there were things that needed to be done and sacrifices that had to be made to ensure a future for the _whole_ of Westeros, not just them. It didn’t change the fact that she wanted to protect him as much as he wanted to protect her.

“That’s not the point, Jon. It may seem insignificant to you, but it matters to me just as much as your safety, as Sansa’s, Bran’s. You’re sending him away—think if it were me you sent. How would you feel?”

“That’s a bit different, you’re family—”

“He feels _closer_ than family.” _He_ is _closer than family_ , she thought.

Jon came to stand beside her, looking up at his surrogate father’s cold face and matching the dour expression on his stony features. He stared for some time in silence, distant chatter in the yards and the howl of the wind in the tunnels the only sounds around them. Finally he turned to her, placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her a look that truly reminded her of father as he spoke.

“We do unspeakable things to protect those we love. Find some comfort in that and enjoy the time you do have.”

 

* * *

Her footsteps echoed on the stones of the cavernous Great Hall as she walked towards the head table. The tapestries that once hung on the hard walls to prevent such sounds had been burnt in the Greyjoy rebellion, and if not then, were definitely destroyed by the Boltons when they took over. Arya wondered what she would do if she had been given the chance to confront Roose or Ramsay Bolton herself, one who shoved a knife in her brother’s gut, the other who abused and raped her sister. From all accounts, both got their dues in the end, but it didn’t change her fierce need to exact the vengeance herself. 

A fire burned low in the hearth from the council meeting earlier in the day. Now, the room was cold, save for the immediate space closest to the flames. She came to stand in front of the table and looked over the map, eyeing the pawns and their placement. Stark forces were small, but so were the Lannisters’. If it weren’t for the thousands marching south from the Wall, the North would win a war against Cersei easily. 

But the Army of the Dead did exist, and their numbers greatly surpassed all the forces south of the Wall combined. Her fingers ran along the map’s rough surface as she made her way to Winterfell where wolves, dragons, birds, a fist, mermen and a single bear stood at the ready. 

The wolf pawn she picked up was heavy, solid grey stone just like the castle. She turned it in her hand, feeling its sharp teeth, its curved head. Behind her, Arya heard steps approach and knew immediately from the unbalanced, heavy gait that Sandor had followed her, as she had hoped.

“Why?” Her voice cracked, but she knew he heard her, even from his place behind her. 

Placing the pawn back on the table, Arya turned to look up as Sandor came closer, the same stoic expression on his face as when he’d accepted what Jon had ordered. He stopped in front of her, silently watching. She searched his stiff face and watched it soften as one of his hands came to hold her cheek, his thumb running slowly over her bottom lip. 

“Why?” She urged.

“I have to.” His voice was low but steady in its resolve, and he did not meet her eyes. 

“What do you mean, ‘you have to’? What happened to doing what you want? To not taking orders—”

“I won’t see you die!” Sandor bellowed, causing her to jump back, knocking into the table behind her and rattling the pawns. His hooded eyes grew wide and wild. “Hundreds of thousands of those dead fuckers are on their way here, to kill every last one of us. The remaining Targaryen forces aren’t made for this shit weather, who knows how well they’ll fight. Lannister forces aren’t coming, the predictable cunts. Any and every man I can find to put between you and them, I will hunt out, drag here and shove a dragonglass spear in their hand or else it’ll be up their arses.”

Sandor grabbed her face with both hands, a little too forcefully as he grit his teeth together. Arya winced as she looked up at him, grasping his wrists. A heavy look seemed to weigh him down, one she hadn’t seen since that night many moons ago in the Godswood before he left for the Wall. An inner conflict she had grown familiar with was raging inside him: listen to his heart and stay with her, or listen to his head and leave in an effort to secure their future. 

“I have to,” he said quietly, his voice breaking this time as he leaned down to kiss her forehead. 

She hadn’t been able to save Hot Pie, or Robb, or Mother, or Yoren, or Lommy. Or Father, for that matter. Arya knew he didn’t _have_ to do this, but understood the guilt of not being able to save those you love. 

Love. 

What a complicated, twisted emotion, capable of bringing the strongest, meanest men to their knees, and the most cunning, deadly wolves to a halt. It wasn’t like it was in the books, Arya had learned that long ago, but the flutter that the songs sang of was still there, albeit different. It was a sickening combination of weightlessness and burden, a knot in her gut when she thought of life without him. It was too much to bear, and yet she had to. And he had to know. 

She pulled him down roughly and kissed him deeply, wrapping her arms around his neck as he picked her up and sat her on the table. Pawns clattered to the floor, stone hitting stone, as he swiped them out of the way to lay her down. His hand, warm and calloused, found the skin beneath her tunic and moved to palm her breast as he pressed himself against her. She sighed, meeting his equally charged gaze. He was warm, and solid, and just felt right. Her legs went up around his waist and for a brief moment, Arya thought they should really move to her chambers, but the thought was gone as soon as it came as he claimed her mouth once more. 

“Sandor…” she gasped between heated kisses.

His tongue ran over her long neck, sending gooseflesh down her side as he sucked and nipped the soft flesh. A low, disapproving growl came from him as she pushed him away, breathless. 

“Don’t…” he warned, though it sounded more like a plea. 

Long fingers trailed down his neck to the slightly opened collar of his jerkin where thick, dark hair forced its way out. She loved that hair, the dark dusting of it that seemed to cover every muscled inch of his large body. She loved his size, how she felt safe even though she didn’t need the protection. She loved his protectiveness, his possessiveness, however hidden it was at times, because it was one of the few ways she knew that he loved her just as much as she loved him. 

“Sandor,” she whispered again, looking up at him. Wavy brown hair fell over his face, casting a shadow over his features save the warm glow from the fire that reached his lips and nose. His brown eyes were soft but hungry. If she didn’t tell him now, she might never get the chance.

“I love you.”

The words were quiet but steady and her defiant eyes did not leave his as she watched the range of emotions ghost across his face. She lifted her hand to run along the scarred side of his face and brushed the hair from his eyes so she could see him better. First there was confusion, as though he had heard her wrong, for he must have. Then came anger, for what she imagined was his disgust that anyone would ever love him. Finally, his face softened in what she had to assume was appreciation or acceptance or something of the sort, but quickly it turned back to anger.

“You don’t mean that,” he challenged bitterly, looking off to some corner of the room. 

Arya knit her brows together in annoyance and held his face tightly with both hands, hoping to hurt him so maybe he’d take her seriously. 

“I do, Sandor Clegane. Look at me,” she yanked his face down, meeting his sad eyes. “I love you, and you need to know that before death tears down these bloody walls and kills us all.”

Before she could say another word, he had claimed her mouth once more, deeply and passionately as he pulled her close. Lifting her as though she were but a sack of potatoes, her legs reflexively wrapping around his waist once more, he carried her towards the chamber halls. 

“What are you doing?”

“Won’t do this here. Don’t need the imp or the dragon queen, or worse yet your brother or sister, barging in.” 

“Barging in on what, precisely?” Arya kissed his whiskery cheek, thankful for quiet, mid-day corridors. 

Sandor was silent and focused as he navigated the dark halls, but she could feel his rough fingers running over the skin at the small of her back. She allowed herself a smile. 

With a grunt, he pushed the door to her chamber open and slammed it shut with his foot, so loudly she worried someone might come to make sure everything was okay. 

“Don’t need them barging in on perversely passionate love-making,” he growled finally, as he deposited her on the bed and crawled atop her, toeing off his boots as he yanked hers off. They hit the carpeted stone with a _thud-thud, thud-thud._

“Love-making, is it?” She laughed into his mouth as her small fingers worked at the clasps of his leathers, making quick work of them. He tossed them aside with little thought, focused on her layers. 

“Aye,” he mumbled against her ear before nipping at it as he undid her breeches with one hand. The ties of his trousers unknotted with ease as her lips moved up his neck.

“Not _mating_?” She smirked, watching him intently with black eyes as he sat back to remove his tunic, before he started pulling at the waist of her pants. Lifting her hips, they—along with her small clothes—came off with surprising finesse. Her tunic just as quickly.

“Mm, that too,” he mumbled, as his dark eyes raked over her nakedness. 

He subconsciously stroked the bulge of his trousers, a bulge that belonged elsewhere if she had any say and she knew she’d find new objection. Arya reached out and yanked at the hem impatiently, urging him. Sandor didn’t break her gaze as he slid his pants and small clothes off.

“What about fucking?” 

As he moved above her again, her fingers wrapped around the length of his cock and a deep, low groan escaped his parted lips as it throbbed beneath her touch. One large hand grabbed the back of her thigh, lifting it so her knee almost touched her chin and he leaned down, his lips brushing hers.

“Aye, _fucking_ ,” he growled, biting her lip as he plunged deep inside, filling every bit of her at once. 

Arya gasped at the sudden fullness, her fingers clawing at his shoulders as her head fell back and she arched into him, meeting each forceful thrust with a soft moan. Sandor wrapped his arm under her, holding her close as he rolled his hips slowly against hers.

“But mostly, sweetling,” he began after some time, his hot breath mingling with hers as he looked down with those soft, sad, brown eyes. 

He hadn’t called her that since he took her maidenhead, on the boat down from Eastwatch. It made her smile, as silly as it was and as stupid as it sounded coming from him.

“Mostly, it’s love-making.” 

Sandor’s mouth devoured hers as their gasps and sighs turned to grunts and moans, their pace quickening. Fast or slow, Arya didn’t care, as long as she could feel the weight of him on top of her, the ache and burn as he filled her, the salty taste of sweat that formed along his neck, beneath the unruly, wavy hair that tickled her nose, the electric feeling of his fingers and tongue as they roved over her, intent on claiming every bit of hot flesh they could find. All of those things meant he was still here, not hundreds of miles away.

Every part of her felt full in that moment, physically and emotionally, and she did her very best to ignore what awaited them outside that wooden door, let alone outside Winterfell’s stone walls. This is what it would all be for—the sacrifice, the distance, the inevitable pain and death—she only hoped it didn’t kill _them_ in the process.

Three more times they made love before either ventured out of her chambers, and by then darkness had befallen the castle. Not once did he utter the words that had brought them there to start with, but she knew he was a man of action, not words and his actions had spoke just as loudly as her passionate cries.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos appreciated. <3


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